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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “Oh, I’m really beginning to hate this asshole—and his father! He’s a clever son of a bitch; you gotta give him that. This is going to be a gigantic waste of our time and resources.” Michelle’s statement of the obvious hangs in the air as Captain Jackson and Cools look at her the way she and Captain Jackson typically look upon her partner.

  “I think I have something!” Ghost blurts out. “I mean…I’m getting nothing on…Look!”

  “What?”

  He peels his eyes away from the monitor long enough to explain. “You’re not going to like this, but I cannot find an actual marriage certificate for Joshua and Kimberly. I’ve searched every state, municipality, and every country they’ve been to. I double- and triple-checked before saying something.”

  “You’re telling us they’re not legally married?” Cools asks, a bit staggered.

  Ghost proceeds with caution. “No, I…I mean, yes, they are not legally married. And it looks like the fact that our computers said they were ever married in the first place originates from an arrest of Joshua two years ago for disorderly conduct. The arresting officer simply typed it in his notes from what Joshua had told him. But I promise you they are not and never have been married. And it gets worse. I’m coming up empty with her maiden name: Sharons. It is starting to look like it was an assumed identity.”

  “So how do we prove who she is?” Cools asks.

  “Well…uh…” Ghost coughs nervously. “It’s like this: when people assume fake identities and take steps to hide their true selves, it becomes extremely difficult to prove who they are. This is how it’s done in our international spy networks and with undercover DEA agents. About the only way is fingerprinting or DNA analysis.”

  “No body, no DNA, no damn fingerprints. Great!” Michelle adds negatively, throwing her arms in the air.

  “Yeah, but we do have her DNA; we have her DNA in her blood found on the yacht.”

  Ghost responds carefully to Cools’s summation, “Well…yeah, in part you are correct; you have blood that has a DNA signature, but it doesn’t do you much good without anything to compare it too.”

  Then Captain Jackson corrects them both by stating, “But we do have her DNA; it’s at the clinic where she and Amberly took their HIV tests.” He doesn’t even wait for their reply; he pulls out his phone and makes a call. “Fredo, I want you to get over to the clinic where Kimberly and Amberly took their HIV tests and get us what’s left of her blood sample. Better yet, get both of them.”

  “Yes, Captain, I’m on it now.”

  “Piece of cake,” Cools says, “we’ll get the blood samples, match the DNA, and problem solved.”

  There’s a moment of silence as everyone thinks it through. Then Michelle changes the subject. “I wanna know why nothing is being said about, you know, when he the signed confession.”

  “I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem to make much sense that he would say nothing or that William wouldn’t have at least mentioned it,” Captain Jackson replies, in a tone suggesting that is all he cares to speak of it. Cools’s demeanor tells her the same.

  “He didn’t mention…he didn’t what?” Ghost asks, now looking at them nosily.

  No one answers as he shifts his suspicious eyes to each of them.

  Captain Jackson clears his throat. “It’s nothing for you to worry about Andrew Levingston…Ghost…whatever they call you! And it is nothing for you to speak of, if you get my meaning. After he signed the confession, we placed him in a cell, where he began screaming and banging his head into the concrete walls; he then made claims that we somehow beat him to talk. So let’s get something perfectly fucking clear: we never did anything to him. But just the accusation could make us look bad.”

  Cools and Michelle wait motionless for him to respond. The tension is cut short with the chiming of his laptop. Ghost shifts his gaze back to his computer, where his expression pales even whiter. “Oh shit,” he squeaks out.

  “What is it?” Cools and Michelle ask at the same time.

  “It’s a reply to an e-mail I sent an hour ago to Natalie Hunsaker, Kimberly’s aunt in Minnesota, and only known relative.” He turns his laptop slowly, so they can all read the message. The monitor displays the same picture they have of Kimberly. And the text beneath reads, “This is not my niece. Who is this? How did you get my e-mail?”

  In disbelief everyone reads the message over and over until another surprise rushes into the room.

  JFK, catching his breath, rapidly says, “Captain, the number for the clinic was disconnected, so I Googled it, and a newspaper article came up from ten days ago: it burned to the ground, destroying everything.”

  Michelle spins, flinging her hands in the air. “For the love of God!”

  Cools begins to say something, but Captain Jackson cuts him off. “All right, that’s it; we’re gonna do some groundwork—starting right now! Cools, I want you and Robertson to go to the Kitty Club and get anyone—I don’t care if they’re coked-up hookers. You just get us some corroborating witnesses, anyone who can verify that Kimberly worked there and that she’s identified to be the wife of Joshua. Fredo!”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “I want you to interview all of Joshua’s neighbors, getting the same! And Ghost, you better start getting me some goddamned answers, or the next time I see you, you’ll be delivering my pizza!”

  The officers exit in a hurry, leaving their captain staring warnings into the young computer analyst. Cools leads Michelle to their cruiser in the parking garage. He moves fast, and before she can get in, he has lit a cigarette and removed the bottle from its hiding spot. He takes a straight drink. She knows better than to say anything since it will only start an argument. So instead she complains, saying, “Fine, that’s the way you want to be. At least roll down the window; I cannot stand your smoke!” He doesn’t respond; he just lowers the window and heads for the interstate.

  Soon they’re cruising down the freeway at 15 mph in almost complete gridlock. Michelle reads out loud from her laptop. “05/20/2012: first degree arson, St. Luke’s parish: dismissed due to lack of evidence.” She ascribes more under her breath while changing screens. “Here it is. Ten days ago fire stations 35 and 51 were called to a multialarm fire at 2240 SW Challine Street in the business district of South Seattle. Firefighters couldn’t control the blaze and had to let the entire building burn itself out—a total loss. The two-story structure supported three businesses in the area: Martin’s Furniture, Computers Inc., and Challine Street Medical Clinic. Arson is expected to be the cause, and damage is set at over twenty-nine million dollars. What do you think about that, Brad? He burned down the damn building to destroy her DNA!”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he did, but that’s a whole other case. Right now we just need to focus on what we can get today.” Just then the traffic begins to move, and thirty minutes later they’re pulling into the Kitty Club entryway that funnels them to its back parking lot, a ways off from the main thoroughfare. Being a guy, and somewhat of a car buff, Cools appreciates a few of the luxury automobiles stabled outside the club walls: a Porsche Carrera GT, Lexus LFA, Cadillac CTS-V, Acura NSX, and more. He wonders for a second if this is some kind of sports car club as well. Michelle seems not to notice, so he decides not to mention it. Besides, all she is mindful of, for the moment, is what is on the inside, because she’s never been in a strip club before and is looking forward to the experience. Cools pays the forty-dollar cover charge, and they enter into a dark hallway and, brandishing their badges, pass by two serious bouncers. The inviting music grows louder, and excitement mounts as they pass black curtains into an unexpected atmosphere. It is nothing like the seedy brothel she’d pictured. It is lavish and clean. Three round stages with shining silver posts form a triangle. Leather chairs and spacious tables surround them. The patrons are well-groomed and finely dressed men, wearing Rolexes and expensive suits. And the girls are beautiful, flawless, supermodels. Michelle studies them for the slightest of imperfections. The one on the cen
ter stage whips her glittering pink and blond hair, flashing naughty grins while seductively dancing to the music and lights, with red lipsticked lips pressed on her ass. Her large, round breasts, shapely legs, and flat belly are all accentuated by tight, mouthwatering skin. Michelle instantly feels sexual. Oh God, she thinks, if I were a man, I would want to play with her!

  Cools captures a quick look, moving to the bar. Welcoming them is a young stud bartender lording in front of glistening display cases of exotic liquors. Cools places his badge and orders a glass of Jameson.

  Michelle checks him out as he searches the wall behind him for the bottle. Then back to the girls. “This…uh…is a lot nicer than I thought,” she yells over the music.

  “Yeah, not too bad,” he grins.

  The bartender, sporting a tight-fitted shirt, sets the drink on a coaster and says cordially, “I’m Aaron. Can I get you anything else detective?”

  Cools swallows the liquor in one gulp and motions him to lean in closer. He pulls Kimberly’s picture out of his pocket and shouts out, “I came here to get every last bit of information there is on her. And I promise you, if I leave here today not knowing all you know, I will return and shoot you in your pretty face.”

  Aaron looks to Michelle for help. He finds none. Then he nervously replies over the noise, “You want to talk to Tommy, the manager!”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ll…uh…get him for you,” he says and begins to back away.

  “We’ll come with you,” Cools says and tracks him to the far side of the stage area. Michelle steals a couple more quick glances at the girls before they enter another dark hallway. The music sounds more distant as they round each corner and travel through a maze to the rear of the building, taking note of the names on the doors: Lovers Lace, Ecstasy, Ablaze, Lady Demure, and so forth.

  Aaron opens a door and begins to say, “There are two police—”

  Cools pushes past, followed by Michelle, who slows with a warm smile in front of the bartender.

  “Hey, what the fuck is this?” Tommy yells.

  “You know exactly why we’re here. Now I want some answers. Tell me everything you know concerning Kimberly.”

  Tommy lets out a sigh, waves his bartender away, and offers them a seat.

  Michelle inspects him and his office. He’s a tall, fit, bronze-skinned man in his midforties who would be very good-looking if it weren’t for the pock marks covering his face. His small, square office is cluttered, and glass-enclosed frames cover every available surface on the walls. Inside are numerous girly magazines: Penthouse, Hustler, Playboy, Maxim, and Club. Michelle presumes the featured girls make up the weekend lineup on the stages.

  As they sit Tommy sets the rules like a shrewd businessman. “Fifty million dollars bail shelters my thoughts for the time being, but let me ask you this: is there any chance of him getting out?”

  Cools, immediately understanding his concern, answers confidently, “No, he’s not going anywhere. And even in the event he does, he’ll be under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Also I want you to know anything you say here today will be between you, me, and my partner, Detective Robertson.” He presents her.

  She smiles while Tommy muses over the circumstances for a spell, then replies, “There’s a lot you need to know, and some of it will be hard to believe.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The cold, pallid cement walls, where Joshua sits, are paint chipped and adorned with graffiti, gang symbols and obscenities: “Blue-dog is a Rat,” “Fuck the police.” An electric deadbolt actuates screeching steel, and a door opens. William, trying not to touch anything, walks past mothers, girlfriends, and gangster buddies until he sees his problem waiting behind the glass. Joshua wears an unusual grin and is sitting tall.

  William takes his seat on the round, stainless steel stool. He picks up the phone, ordering, “Listen to me, Josh. Do not utter a word until I have finished saying all that I need to say.”

  “No, you listen to me. I—”

  William slams the phone back into its cradle.

  Joshua protests for a spell then relents; his muted appeals are barely heard through the thick screened-glass barrier. William holds out until he’s sure he will get the chance to speak first. He is a prudent man who has just spent the last hour procuring a judgment to have the recording system turned off while conversing with his son. Still he does not trust them and doesn’t intend to permit an opportunity for Joshua to say anything incriminating. Also he has an obligation to keep this scandal as far away from the archdiocese as possible. It is a delicate dance, as none of this rests well with the church—his prized client, which he’s represented as chief legal advisor for more than a decade and aims to protect at any cost. The wealth gained in service to them has guaranteed his devotion and has become a large part of his professional and personal life. For better or worse, it is who he is, even if it is all a sham. Attorney William Siconolfi is forever putting on a show, practicing the art of spin and deception, not just in the courtroom but in the public light as well. The greatest decision he ever made for his career was the blueprinting of his public Christian persona, projecting himself as a follower of the faith:

  a hypocrite for hire.

  Again he picks up the receiver. “I need you to say nothing; this conversation could be monitored, and anything you say can be used against you. Sometimes cases can be won or lost due to the slightest bits of information given up by the defendant. Now, I already know you are innocent, so you need not try to convince me otherwise.” Then he attempts some small talk to ease things over. “How’re you doing in there? You look horrible.”

  Joshua, pressed to behave, starts in an even tone. “Dad, I know I say some crazy shit sometimes, but listen to me carefully. They really did torture me; they have this room with chaotic lights; they drugged me and kept me in some kind of pressurized cell, and I want it told to the press. I want the world to know. I want them to pay for what they did to me!”

  “That’s’ not important right now.” William shakes his head, finding the fortitude to tell it to him straight. “Josh, I’m not…we’re not going to attack this with accusations of police brutality. We all know it happens, but in the end, it’s not a good defense strategy, basically because no one cares. Half of the public won’t believe it; the other half silently condones it.”

  “I don’t care; I need you to tell the press about my forced confession!”

  “Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll make a statement. Now answer my question: how’re you holding up?”

  He laughs sarcastically. “I’m doing just fine. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Do not speak to me in that tone, son; I think you should show some respect and appreciation that I’m even here.”

  There’s a pause and then Joshua asks, “What’re they saying about me in the news?”

  “They’re saying all kinds of things, but none of that’s important. Now listen to me. We’re in a lot of trouble here, and the fact that you seem more interested in your media coverage makes me question your very sanity even more so. They want to execute you, son!”

  “I don’t care; they can try if they want. And who gives a shit anyway?”

  “I give a shit! Yeah…you know, you may be my wayward son; you screw off all your money, and I put up with all your nonsense, your religion, your fantasy world you live in with your stripper wife, your…your drugs! And still I care.”

  Not wanting to get roped into another discussion of drugs, Joshua changes his approach. “What do you mean we’re in a lot of trouble. I’m the one in here, remember?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s all about you, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you something. I’ve lost ten pounds since you started all this mayhem. And I’m walking a fine line trying to save you and my practice. I’m hesitant to show my face in public because of you, and I have the nagging notion to walk away and wash my hands of all this completely!”

  Joshua changes and pushes his face to the glass. T
here’s a boiling anger in his eyes, looking as if he could smash through with hatred alone, but he says nothing, since it is nothing new—this talk from his father and his position in the community he’s heard all his life. William can see his son drifting to wherever he goes when he’s this way; he attempts to pull him out of it, saying, “I told them Kimberly isn’t real—that she’s only in your imagination.”

  “Sure, that’s just fucking like you! Let’s quit playing games, or maybe we could talk about your church. Why don’t we talk about the fact that—”

  William hangs up again, motions for the guard, then watches his son being escorted away without looking back. A parental guilt rises in him. Maybe I could’ve been a better father; maybe things would’ve been better if he still had his mother. I have to do anything and everything possible to get him free. But more importantly I have to shield the archdiocese; I have to protect myself.

  Joshua is taken back to isolated confinement. The guards call ahead, clearing the hallways before moving him. They have to stay vigilant and keep him safe because of the many other criminals who may attempt to make a name for themselves.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Tommy replies, “There is a lot you need to know, and some of it will be hard to believe!”

  His visitors listen ardently, taking notes.

  “She came to me a year ago, begging for a job, but said she couldn’t reveal her real name. My first thought was she was under age. So I put her on the stage, hoping she’d fail miserably, that I could get rid of her right away. But it was just the opposite; she was a natural, and desirable; she took to it like I’d never seen before. Her moves were naturally sensual. She said she’d never danced before, but we didn’t believe her. And after some of us took a good look at her and concluded she was of age, I hired her on the spot. I told her to come back later that evening at nine, but she never showed. I tried to call, but she didn’t answer. Then two nights later, on a Saturday night, the place was packed; she strolled through the front door dressed as some sort of queen vampire. She wore a black see-through cape with a red choker. Then she stole the center stage. All eyes were on her as she interrupted the other girl, simply staring at her, saying nothing, with a glare telling her to leave. She was powerful, and needless to say, she had our full attention. The other girl—can’t remember her name—bounced away in a fit. And Jeremy, our DJ, played into the theme. He lowered the lights and beamed a bluish, glowing spotlight on her and a slow pulsing strobe; the set held a trickle of decadence and sin. Then she began to dance in ways never seen, bending her silken curves, teasing, inviting all of us to feast our eyes, and we did. But after she was done, she fled the club without saying a word. I thought she was going to get away, but I chased her down in the parking lot and, after a lot of pleading, persuaded her into doing a regular show.”