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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  Their older waitress scoots across the hardwood floors, bringing Cools a fresh cold one and Michelle another White Russian. “Here you go, you two,” she says politely, then makes change using the money left on the table’s edge and leaves them in seclusion.

  Michelle, over the light sounds of a couple playing billiards in the back, asks, “How are things going for you lately, Brad? Are you doing something different? You seem less strained…less agitated.” He starts to answer, then takes another swig. “Brad, answer me!”

  “Uh…okay. I went to the doctor, and I started taking some medications to slow me down. But that’s just between you and me, okay?”

  “Sure, Brad. What did they put you on?”

  “It’s an experimental psychotropic, but there’s no charge.”

  “What!” she cries outs in disbelief.

  “I’m kidding; settle down. I’m taking Lexapro, and I think it’s helping. I was wondering when you were going to get around to saying something about it, or at least I was hoping you would notice.”

  “Well, I’ve definitely seen an improvement, Brad,” she replies favorably. Cools responds with a gratified smile, watching her drinking from her straw. She quickly reaches the bottom and waves the waitress over for a third.

  “Drinking a little fast, aren’t we?” he teases.

  “Yeah, but I deserve it. And I…” She pauses for an instant. He understands she has more to say. “This whole case is so stressful, even though we have him. I just feel that he’s still controlling things…or maybe someone else is controlling it. I don’t know. Did you read his latest poem, his palindrome or whatever, on YouTube?”

  Cools holds up his iPhone. “Got it right here. It’s definitely out of the ordinary, maybe even—and I hate to say it, but…witty?”

  “Yeah, that’s my point exactly. He is clever Brad, even if he is insane. And he’s surrounded by powerful figures, and I’m just…I’m afraid that somehow he’s going to get out of this. Everything is moving so fast! They’re treating him like some notorious rock star in the news. We didn’t find anything today—nothing of any interest anyway. And I’m getting calls at my home—my home, Brad! And what’s the deal with Captain and his secret friends?”

  “Okay, there it is. I was waiting for you to bring it up. I have a couple ideas concerning all this; I think you should listen, but bear with me, what I’m about to say might alarm you.”

  She opens her hand, stopping him before he speaks, as the waitress returns with a new drink for her. “Is there anything else I can get for you two?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take another beer, and”—Cools reaches in his jacket pocket, pulling out his badge—“what would I have to do to get an ashtray around here?”

  The waitress chuckles and then, in a husky smoker’s voice, says, “Honey, you might just be onto something.” She looks around, assessing the damage it may cause, as he flashes her a flirtatious smile, egging her on. “You know, ain’t nobody else coming in here tonight; besides all our regulars have gone.” She checks her watch and winks, saying, “I’ll be right back.”

  “Wow,” Michelle exclaims. “I am impressed. You sure do have a way with the ladies, don’t you?”

  “Well, you know,” he replies with a grin.

  Less than a minute later, the waitress returns carrying a beer and an ashtray. She pulls out a cigarette of her own, asking, “Do you need a light, honey?” She lights his cigarette first and then her own. Michelle laughs to herself, examining the two of them, looking like teenagers getting away with something. “Now, you two enjoy yourselves, you hear,” she says and leaves, happily smoking.

  Michelle lets him enjoy a few drags before inquiring a second time, “So what’re your ideas about what’s going on, Brad?”

  He takes one more quick puff, gathering his thoughts. “I think we both feel something much bigger here; the real question is: what do we do about it? I have no doubt that the car club may very well be a hornets’ nest, maybe even more like a shark tank full of fearless thrill seekers with a lot to lose. And although it’s possible they could be nothing more than innocent men who like to drive fast, this thing could be something very different, seriously different—it could be more menacing than we could ever imagine. What if they’re mixed up in Joshua’s religion, or maybe even responsible for not just Kimberly and Amberly, but all the other missing girls? How many were there, thirty-four?”

  “Yes, thirty-four,” she replies in disgust.

  “And if that’s even partially true, how far might they go to protect themselves? What happens if we become a foreseeable threat?” Michelle doesn’t answer, but there’s a look on her face that says she’s entertained similar ideas. “Wait a second; I just thought of something,” he adds, and makes a phone call.

  Michelle’s head begins to whirl. She’s not sure she wants to continue with this conversation. I think I feel a panic attack coming on; I should drink more.

  “Come on, answer the phone.”

  “Hello.”

  “Ghost, Cools here. I need you to look up something for me. William—does he own a sports car?”

  “Do you think?” Michelle chirps out.

  A few clicks of the keyboard, and Ghost responds back loudly over the phone, “Yes, yes, he does; he owns a 2011 Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG, and it looks like it’s the real deal—lists at $183,000, and that’s just the base price.”

  “Thanks, Ghost.”

  “Oh my God, Brad, do you think? That connects William to Trace; they’re both members of this racecar club! They go out, race their cars, maybe perform religious ceremonial acts, and have orgies on Saturday night, then meet up at the church with their wives and children on Sunday morning. How creepy is that?”

  “We don’t know they’re involved in Joshua’s religion,” he states, correcting her, then swallows the last of his beer. “But that being said, I’m concerned about what we do, because there may be a point of no return if we keep digging… Maybe we should leave it all alone. Think about what we could gain if we uncover some scandal. Think about what we could lose if we uncover some scandal. I don’t know that we’re prepared for this; we don’t even know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Now you’re scaring me, Brad.” She shivers at the chilling thought of finding herself on the wrong side of an influential sect of religious disciples, especially those that lust for ultimate stimulation.

  “My thoughts exactly! I’m scared myself. We’re not talking about taking down some drug dealer or proving a woman poisoned her husband for the insurance money. No, we’re dealing with”—Cools starts again with his fingers— “one, William Siconolfi a dominant and crafty attorney; two, Trace Friesen, who was immersed deep in politics; three, the fucking Roman Catholic archdiocese; and four, the fact that these guys are mixed up in illegal car races, prostitutes, orgies, and maybe even secret religions. This is not something for us to delve into; these are powerful men who can only be taken down by other powerful men, not a couple of cops!” Michelle nods in agreement. “Now, I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, and we have our guy. He’s not going to get out of this. He’ll be convicted and sent away, plain and simple. We…”—Cools waves his hand back and forth—“we need to consider ourselves…your family.” He lets it sink in for a second. “For all our troubles, we actually have pretty good lives. I have Chelsea, and you have your husband and Lindsey. Why would we risk all that? Why should we?”

  The waitress has approached unnoticed. “Is everyone doing okay? Can I get you some more drinks?”

  Michelle looks away, staring at one of the pictures on the wall.

  Cools answers, “Yeah, one more quick round. Thank you.”

  The waitress walks away.

  “And if they are guilty, we just let them bury it?”

  “Maybe better it than us.”

  “You know, I’ve never seen you run from anything, Brad. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No, I’m not running! It’s only that I…I
have this idea of what these men are like, and it frightens the hell out of me…thoughts of ritualistic pleasure killings by wealthy untouchable men, men who can hide behind their clout and influence, eliminating anything or anyone in their way.” He lights another cigarette. “Just listen, I’m not trying to talk you into anything. I’m not even sure…I’m not sure I’ve made up own mind. It’s just that sometimes it’s best to look the other way; I don’t want to be in a position to have to let them bury something—maybe it’s best to just not know some things in the first place.”

  “I don’t know, Brad,” she sighs, obviously exhausted, “maybe you’re right.”

  They finish their drinks without discussing much more and, after a short, comforting hug outside, part ways. Their conversation has induced uncertainty and paranoia. Cools envisions situations of being suddenly approached.

  And Michelle, who hardly ever drinks and drives, does so cautiously. The liquor is having quite an effect, and her wits are altered. Just eight more blocks, just concentrate on what’s in front of you. She makes it to her home without incident, but there’s a nagging troublesome feeling that someone has followed her.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Another couple of days slip by and things slow down, without any new evidence emerging. It is a fact that being a police officer is sometimes like prison or war, 99 percent pure boredom and dead ends, followed by intense hours of utter chaos. But the calm that has as of late surrounded them is poised to give way to an evil head rising once again.

  Michelle is awakened by someone pounding at her front door. She looks at the clock; it reads 9:37 a.m. She has slept in, and her husband and daughter are already gone.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  The knocks are so hard they shake the house and stagger her thinking; she grabs her service revolver, checks that it is loaded, and treads lightly out into the hallway to listen.

  Bang, bang, bang-bang!

  She isn’t expecting any company, and normal people don’t knock nearly as hard. Cautiously she tiptoes down the stairs in her pajamas, gun at her side, until the front door is in view.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Each thump startles her more; she can now see a shadowy figure through the tinted glass bordering the entryway. The shape is moving abruptly, trying to see inside. Her body tenses as she creeps to the door and peers through the peephole. There, a man she’s never seen before stands in a uniform, holding flowers. He has quit shifting around, and she knows that he knows she’s behind the door. She cocks her weapon, conceals it at her back, and unbolts the lock. Then she opens the door, hiding her fear behind a gaze of contempt for the man’s gross behavior.

  “Are you”—he looks to the card—“Detective Robertson?” he asks, absent of any emotion, presenting a bouquet of black and white roses.

  “Yes, I am,” she answers, stealing glances around him at the outside. None of her neighbors are out, and even though she’s at her front door and in the open, she feels cornered. I’m getting roses; I should be delighted. Why does this feel so wrong?

  “Here you go. These are for you,” he declares, handing over the gift. She grabs them silently, using her free hand as the man adds an indifferent explanation, “I apologize to you, ma’am, for knocking so hard.” He then begins to walk backward down the steps. “I was just told that you’d be home and that you’d certainly want to have these.”

  She thanks him in a weary tone, returns inside, locks up tightly, then watches the man march out of sight and disappear down the sidewalk. This is very strange; he was strange. Who would send me black and white roses? Why isn’t he parked out front? She opens the card and immediately drops it to the floor alongside the flowers, realizing now that she’s in grave danger. The detective in her grips the gun firmly, instantly becoming acutely aware of her surroundings, searching again through the windows. Nothing is moving. The man is out of sight, but where he went she doesn’t know. So immediately she runs throughout her home, locking all the doors, checking that the windows are secure, all the while considering the card from memory.

  “Be forewarned, You and your Partner should be very Cautious! …You should adhere to the worries of your conversations!”

  She flies back up the staircase, barricading herself inside the master bedroom, and finds her cell phone. But it is barely holding a charge. Please make a call out. With shaking hands, she calls Cools. “Brad! Brad!” she shrieks. “I need you to come here right now!”

  Cools sits in traffic. Right away he can hear the urgency in her voice. “Here? Where?”

  “At my home, Brad, they sent me a threatening message—a man was here! And I’m freaking out!”

  “I’m on my way.”

  She hears his engine rev before the line goes dead. Hurry, Brad, please hurry! She sits on the bed, holding a pillow and her gun, just staring at the door. All the talk from the past couple of days comes to mind: the car club, ritualistic thrill killings, sex parties, thirty-four missing girls…Could they be responsible? How far would they go to protect themselves? Who is their leader? Her senses are heightened; she can hear the slightest of noises: the hum of the heat pump in the backyard, her cat pacing outside the bedroom door, the downstairs living room fan spinning. Adrenaline pulses in milliseconds with erratic jolts preparing her to fight or flight. A checklist for noises of concern enters her psyche—door locks being tampered with, footsteps, breaking glass—as she tries to remember every detail of the flower delivery man: tall, thin, fit, midthirties, no name tag. How have they heard our conversations? Dark eyes, untanned skin, short, dark brown hair. Listen for door locks. Expressionless, scary eyes. Tires squealing. Car door slamming…

  Bang, bang, bang!

  She clenches her gun tighter, almost squeezing the trigger, then freezes up.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  “Michelle, are you in there? Open up!”

  It’s Brad; get yourself up. Move!

  She runs downstairs and checks to make sure before opening the door and pulling him inside. She clamps onto him so firmly he can barely breathe. He can feel her body quivering, her sweat mixing with his.

  “Where is he? Where is he? Where did he go?”

  “He left…I think he left. He gave me this!” She picks up the card. He reads it, noticing the flowers strewn across the floor. “Oh God, Brad, I was so scared. I…I…I was up most the night thinking about them, and when someone started banging on the door—oh God, I was so scared. And then I read the note.” Suddenly her tone changes from jittery to pissed off. “I don’t want to go any further with this Brad. I want out. I’m going to tell Captain. I want off this freaking case!”

  “Okay, calm down. We’re going to figure this out.”

  “No, Brad, I’m done. I’ll quit if I have to. I don’t care! You can go after these guys on your own. How do they know about our conversations? Somehow they’re listening. They’re listening to us, Brad. Whatever—it doesn’t matter. I am done!”

  Cools reads the warning again, then moves around the room, searching out the windows. “What did he look like?”

  “He was tall, thin—it doesn’t matter. I want to get out of here right now. Come on. Let’s go!” She grabs him again by the arm and tries to pull him outside.

  “You gonna go in that,” he says, referring to her pajamas.

  “Oh shit, wait here. Wait right here!” Then she bounds back up the stairs, vanishing away onto the second floor. From there she continues to yell, “Don’t go anywhere, Brad. You better not go anywhere!” Normally he would be laughing at her, but he realizes the threat is real. And he can’t help but feel like they’re being watched even at this very moment. She comes running down the stairs. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go!”

  They leave together in Cools’s car. On the way their conversation covers much ground, all coming to one final conclusion: the flowers and their warning came from the racecar order. He drives, looking more behind him than in front of him. By the time they reach the station, they’ve come to the
consensus that they’re done investigating anyone or anything that has any connection to the car club.

  At the station Misty Lakewoods says, “Good morning,” and waves them in.

  Captain Jackson has been waiting patiently inside his office in preparation to hear them out, to abide by their demands, to grant their liberation. Like a skilled performer, he will sympathize with their cause and act stunned by their new information, though he already knows all that they’re going to tell him. Michelle enters first and begins frantically explaining every detail.

  When she is exhausted, he asks them both a simple question. “All right, do the both of you fully understand that once I take you off this case, for no reason will I put you back on it? Once you’re done, you’re done.”

  “Yes, Captain, I understand fully.”

  “And you, Cools?”

  “Well, where are we at exactly in terms of securing a conviction? Can Milkowski get it done?”

  “All right, here’s the deal. We can prove she was real. Nice try, William. And that she was thought of by many to be the wife of our boy. The circumstantial evidence is enough to persuade a jury that he alone murdered her. Simply put, we’ll get a conviction. Although it seems quite apparent his antics will continue, with no foreseeable end in sight.” He holds the bridge of his nose. “On this morning’s news, they were saying we beat a confession out of him. One reporter was asking, ‘What’s this country come to when we arrest the deranged, who not only believe they have a wife but have imaginarily killed her?’ Now, it all plays well in the media, but the end will be the same: he will be convicted and sent away. I promise you. Oh, and he still paces all day naked in his cell.”