Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (3 page)

Curtains from curious onlookers are pulled aside as homeowners watch their every move. Cools shoots them long, serious stares until they retreat deep within their homes. Then after a few short and sweet introductions, he uses his hand-held radio to call Officer Renker in the alley. “Officer Renker, are you in position?”

“That’s affirmative; we have the rear sealed.”

“Okay, I need you to remain silent and wait for further commands.”

“Detective, what’s the plan?” asks the rookie.

“Okay, here’s the seriousness of the situation. The suspect is Joshua Siconolfi. I put him away once for almost beating his girlfriend to death; he spent eight months, although he deserved twenty years. And now it seems he’s not only murdered his new wife, but this creep did it on a live radio show. We are dealing with a real sick and twisted individual that at this point has nothing to lose except spend the rest of his life behind bars. So we’re not taking any chances— do not hesitate to take him out! Does everyone understand?”

The officers, now realizing the full scope of the situation, look to each other, mustering courage as his words sink in. Cools makes one final attempt to weed out anyone not 100 percent sure. “Is there anyone who for any reason isn’t ready to go?” Silently they all shake their heads no. He then systematically looks each of them in the eye until he is satisfied all will do their job. “Okay, you,” he says, pointing to the short officer. “You flank my right.” Then he gestures to the rookie and the redheaded officer, ordering them to flank the left, while lifting his radio to his mouth. “Officer Renker, we’re going in; are you ready?”

“Affirmative.”

Cools begins walking backward to his cruiser, saying, “Okay, let’s go; safeties off and follow my lead.” A moment later, in his vehicle, he lights a much-needed cigarette. He takes in thick, full drags while waiting until everyone is lined up. He envisions what he might find or, rather, more what he hopes to find. In his mind’s eye, he sees a bloodied, dead girl tied to a chair and Joshua going for his gun. A flood of endorphins ignites his brain as he envisions his response, unleashing all his skill and fury with the quickness of a rattlesnake, which will equate to two bullets in Joshua’s chest and one to the head. Joshua will then slump to his death against the wall, taking a good look at his executioner as he dies, and he will know that Detective Cools was the wrong guy to piss the fuck off.

Cools is then pulled back to reality by a flash of a thumbs-up from the officer in the patrol car now positioned beside him. Cools tosses his cigarette out the window, then takes a deep, fresh breath before leading the charge up Crestwood Lane. He doesn’t even see the road—only his gun firing—until they reach the driveway. They enter promptly at 2018. The other patrol cars, flanking his sides, tear into the lawn, lights flashing. One of them running over a row of Japanese maples bordering the perimeter of the yard. Then they all come to an abrupt stop and exit their cruisers, assuming tactical positions. Cools crouches behind his door, gun in his right hand and cell phone in the other. He dials the number and pushes send.

At the fourth ring, Joshua answers smoothly, “Hello?”

Cools’s first impression is that he sounds drunk as well as seemingly unaware of being ambushed. It gives him poise, and in a low, commanding voice, he states, “This is Detective Cools from the Seattle Police Department. You are surrounded. You need to come out the front of the house holding your hands in the air; if you attempt to go out the back, you
will
be shot! And if you do not come out immediately, we are coming, in full force! Do you understand?”

He pauses a second for Joshua’s response but only hears breathing and then—click.

Oh, you’re fucking dead! “Okay, is everyone ready?” Cools calls over the radio. Everyone confirms, and he wastes no time. “Follow me!” He starts for the door with his Ruger 40 Auto leading the way and his makeshift team of street cops moving in on all sides. The rookie and the redheaded officer to his left have AR-15s and are gradually creeping across the lawn. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and one of these guys will also shoot him. Swiftly and cautiously and low to the ground, he sprints toward the large, heavy wooden door while surveying the structure. It’s a large, single-story home with wrought-iron security bars over the outside windows—the kind only the wealthy and crack dealers have installed. His head sways back and forth, collecting information—curtains and shades drawn tight, no sign of a dog—and then he sees movement. “Halt!” he yells, holding his left arm high. Everyone crouches into combat positions as the front door slowly opens.

Cools and the other officers would never have expected what happens next. Joshua just casually walks out the door onto the colored concrete walkway, wearing leather sandals, long baggy khaki shorts, and a designer button-up shirt, untucked. He looks freshly tanned and at ease, extending both hands in the air, one of which appears to be clutching a cocktail. His eyes squint against the sun peeking through the cloud cover, and he begins to say something. “What’s the big fucking idea—”

“Drop the drink and turn around,” Cools demands, as he steadily advances closer. Make a sudden movement—anything!

Joshua smiles and replies, “This is very expensive scotch.”

Bang! Cools shoots a warning shot into the ground, blasting a hole the size of a tennis ball in the driveway, then aims his weapon back at Joshua’s upper left chest. The noise scares even the other officers. “I said put the drink down and turn around! Do it now!”

“Whatever, top cop,” Joshua replies, before leisurely placing the drink on the walkway. The other officers scattered about the yard look in amazement at each other. The rookie seems relieved while the other two look disappointed. Cools’s feelings coincide with the latter.

“Now interlock your hands behind your head and drop to your knees!” Cools commands, although in his mind he wills him: please do something; make a sudden move. His wish goes unanswered, as Joshua nonchalantly slumps to the ground. Frustrated, Cools runs up, pulls the suspect’s arms behind him, plunges a heavy knee onto his neck, and as roughly as he can, cuffs him tightly. He pats him down, finding nothing, and places him in a white, bamboo chair situated outside the doorway.

The officers all wipe the sweat from their brows and relax a bit. But not Cools, he’s still running in the red. Wasting no time he instructs the rookie to watch over their suspect and directs the other two to assist him, ordering, “Okay, let’s do a search of the house.” Then he storms into Joshua’s well-kept home, or his music studio—he’s not sure. The living room is packed with amplifiers, and at the far wall rest three very polished guitars, all neatly in a row below framed pictures of swimsuit models. A leather sectional couch is placed around a flat-screen television and stacks of stereo equipment. And built into the wall is an enormous fish tank, home to many colorful fish. To Cools it doesn’t look like a married man’s home, more like a playboy’s bachelor pad. Moving through, he comes upon a film poster of
Scarface
and passes into a stainless steel kitchen where everything is remarkably clean and organized. Nothing is out of the ordinary: no dead woman, signs of a struggle, or evidence of a murder. So he makes his way down the hallway as the officers enter rooms at the other end of the house. He feels a bit childish; nevertheless, he wants to find her first. Then, as expected, he finds something: a locked door. Endorphins rush in his mind; he promptly kicks in the door. The wood frame splinters. And the officers come running at the commotion. They stop short, staring at Cools, who is carefully making his entry. His eyes widen. Inside are many computer screens monitoring the entire outside perimeter of the property. Cools turns to the others standing in the broken doorway. In their faces he finds more disappointment. “Anything?” he asks, with a hint of desperation.

“The front area of the house is clear; we haven’t found anything, Detective… What’s all this?”

“I’m not sure, looks like home surveillance.”

“Wow, he’s better equipped than us.”

“Keep looking!” Cools demands. But another search of the home yields the same results. On the various monitors he can see the patrol cars on the front lawns, the rookie standing over Joshua, and Officer Renker waiting in the back, clear as day. Irritated he blurts out for all to hear, “Time to get the info out of the perp—old school!” He then strides hastily out to the front entryway, fully prepared to beat a confession out of the suspect if he has to.

There Joshua sits with legs sprawled out, looking quite comfortable. His head is rested back, and he looks like he could take a nap. Cools snatches him to his feet and marches him out to the front of his squad car. “Where’s your wife?” he demands.

“Oh…Is that what you’re looking for?” Joshua replies, acting surprised.

“Where is she? Tell me right now!”

Joshua pauses, curiously observing the bulging blood vessel on Cools’s forehead. Then he calmly replies, “She’s at work. So would you please take your hands off me?”

Cools pushes him, letting go of his grip, thinking how everything seems upside down. I’m the cop, yet I’m the one sweaty and agitated, while Joshua, the killer, is composed—almost too composed. He tries to get his head around it while continuing his questioning. “Where does she work?”

Joshua starts acting a little more human and says, “Fuck you, Officer Cools. What the hell is this all about?”

“You know exactly what this is about; you called the radio station. I heard the tape.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that,” Cools replies sarcastically.

“It was just a joke.”

“A joke? You call that a fucking joke?”

“Yeah, man, I thought it was kind of funny. I was just fucking around.”

“Where’s your wife, asshole?”

“I told you, top cop; she’s working.”

“Where?”

Joshua smiles, pauses, then answers, “She’s working the noontime show at the Kitty Club in Everett.”

Cools gives him a look of disbelief and pulls his phone from his pocket, noticing that even his hands are shaking from agitation. He dials 411. “I need Kitty Club in Everett.” The prompter gives him an option; he pushes another button and is shortly connected, expecting to learn momentarily that it is just more bullshit. And what’s more nauseating to him is the fact that Joshua slouches back on his heels, unconcerned, maybe even enjoying the charade.

“Thanks for calling the Kitty Club; this is Candy. What can I do for you?”

“Is Kimberly Siconolfi there?”

“Well…yes…she is,” Candy’s amorous voice replies.

“I’m Detective Cools from the Seattle Police Department; I need to speak with her.”

“Oh…I’m sorry, Detective; she’s dancing. Would you like some Candy instead?”

“No, I need to talk to Kimberly,” he replies, growing strangely frustrated by her sexy talk. “Are you
sure
she’s there?”

“Oh, well let’s see…I’m looking at her fine, round ass quivering in the air. Wait—she’s turning…Yep, those are her big, beautiful tits straddling the pole… Oh and now she’s crawling across the stage, and I can see her face. It’s definitely Kimberly. Why don’t you come over, Detective, and we can watch her together.”

“Maybe another time, Candy,” he answers sharply, and hangs up. “What kind of sick fuck are you?”

Joshua doesn’t respond, only grins while peering around his yard full of cop cars and police officers snooping about his home. Cools does the same, seeing the whole thing beginning to slow down. Then he gets a call from his captain and, with a hand gesture, motions the rookie, who is now simply loitering nearby, to watch over Joshua. Passing him off like a baton on the track course, he moves to the other side of the yard, so he can privately talk to his boss, Captain Jackson.

He and Cools have been friends for many years; they make it to the basketball court two or three times a month and go deep-sea fishing in the summer. They even share the same temperament. Socially and mentally they are equals but physically quite different—mostly because Captain Jackson is a large black man, a bit older, who wasn’t even pretty when he was young. Cools reports the entire situation, and then there’s a long silence. “What should we do?” he asks.

“Hold tight; do nothing; I’m gonna call you right back.”

Cools, feeling it all slipping away, lights up a cigarette and glares at Joshua. “Pretty boy punk,” he mutters under his breath. Then the phone rings; “Jerome Jackson” shows on the display.

“Cools, I have in my office assistant prosecuting attorney Levits, and she’s telling me, unless you can find some evidence of a crime, we have to let him go.”

“Let him go! Are you fucking kidding me?” He knew it could come down to this, but he doesn’t plan to cave without a fight. “I am not just going to let him go!”

Captain Jackson snaps back sternly, “You know who his father is, and when you break it all down, we got nothing. If we try to arrest him for a prank, they’ll…they’ll have our balls on a platter!” Then in a more affable voice, he says, “Cools, you
do
remember who his father is don’t you?”

Cools answers with a long and exasperated yes, while briefly running a couple details through his mind: William Siconolfi, one of Seattle’s greatest trial attorneys and head of the legal team representing the Roman Catholic archdiocese.

Then Captain Jackson adds, “That’s just the way it has to be: no crime, no time.”

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He holds the phone in the air, shooting daggers at it with his eyes for a time, then slowly pushes the end button, trying to quiet his nerves. He scans the scene of cops standing around aimlessly at this midday false alarm, gathered about a tall, tanned playboy without a care—smiling like a kid at the circus. Maybe I should get him some cotton candy.

Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, other cops, followed by two news vans, begin pulling onto the scene. “Damn, they’re fast,” he says just before recognizing a familiar face. It’s Tabatha Sterns jumping out of her van, microphone in hand, and he’s not the only one to take notice of her easy, blond hair and dark blue, inviting eyes. She carries with her that innocent, Midwestern, good-littlegirl way about her, the kind you want to dirty up. “Hold ’em back!” he yells to some of the fresh cops now on-site. Soon a collision between cops and reporters forms a mob of noise and questions. Cools shakes his head in disbelief, making his way back to his cruiser, where Joshua stands smiling for the cameras. He has no choice but to accept defeat. There he excuses the officers of their duty, and once again they are alone.