Read Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." Online
Authors: Bad-Boy Storyteller
Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (26 page)
“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.”
“Yeah, he’s a real freak,” Cools says. Michelle remains quiet.
Captain Jackson chuckles forcibly. “Yeah, he’s one interesting white boy— that’s for sure. But soon he’ll only be a memory. Now, I’ll give another press conference telling them you and Robertson are being taken off the case due to the fact we’ve secured sufficient evidence to go to trial. And any further investigations into the matter will be conducted by Fredo.”
“I like that idea. I want the whole world to be guaranteed of that. I need to protect myself and my family.”
“Exactly. All right, then, consider it done, Robertson. Now, if that’s all, I do have other matters to consider. But first I would like to talk with you Cools.” They both look to Michelle, evidently the third wheel. “Wait in the war room, Robertson, and I’ll be in shortly to debrief you, okay?”
“Yes, Captain,” she says and leaves his office.
Once the men are alone, Captain Jackson says to Cools, “Have a smoke if you want.”
“Yeah, okay, what is it you want to talk to me about?”
“All right, a couple of things…first, what’re your plans with the coke?”
“Well, I can’t risk getting caught taking it back. I guess I will just get rid of it.”
Captain Jackson studies his face, hesitant to accept his assertion. “All right, good enough, but you better do it; I don’t want to hear of any of it hitting the streets. Where are you hiding it?”
The question surprises him. He delays his answer, somewhat confused. At no other time has he ever felt a reason to withhold anything from his captain, his friend. But a sense inside him advises to be evasive. “I hid it where no one will ever suspect to look; it’s safe enough.”
“But where…where is it?”
He feels pressured; paranoia sets in, so he lies. “I stashed it under the kitchen sink in Chelsea’s apartment.” Then he senses the weight of his captain’s stare but holds his demeanor.
“You said there were a
couple
of things you wanted to talk to me about?”
“All right, there are. And I’m gonna give it to you straight. You look like shit, Cools, and I want you to take a vacation. Take your girl somewhere, get laid, get drunk, get all this nonsense out of your mind, and get prepared for trial.”
Cools wasn’t expecting as much, and actually believes things to be the contrary. He hasn’t felt this good in years; he’s been more relaxed and getting better sleep, although he does grant the thought an inkling of consideration. “Well, if that’s what you think I should do, I guess…yeah, I could use some R and R.”
“I do; I really do.” There’s a moment of silence, with Captain Jackson looking into him, studying him. Then the captain stands, grabs his jacket, and orders, “Stay, have a couple drinks, smoke a few cigarettes, think about it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes; we can talk some more.” He gives an encouraging nod and continues, “I’m gonna have a little talk with Robertson…get her under control.”
He exits the room.
Cools finds a bottle of Jameson, pours a healthy glass, and flows into a daze, thinking only of tropical islands. And before Captain Jackson returns, he’s made up his mind and left a note on his desk.
The note reads, “I think I’ll start packing my bags this afternoon.”
.
B
elieving Cools is secured inside his office, Captain Jackson attends to Michelle in the war room. He walks in, finding her all alone. “Need a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah, okay,” she replies, then silently watches him fill two Styrofoam cups. He dispenses a healthy portion of sugar and creamer into hers—the way he knows her to drink it—before joining her at the table.
“All right, Robertson,” he says in a comforting voice, “there are some things you need to understand. First of all, you know I have great respect for you. I really like you, Robertson. I think you’re a class act; you hold my heart.” Michelle smiles. “And you’re making the right decision to leave these stones unturned, which do not concern you.” He reaches across the table holding her hands in his. “You’re cold.”
“Yeah, I…I’m still a little shaken up over this morning,” she answers, wondering where all this is going.
“I can appreciate that,” he says, trying to ease her mind for what he’s about to say. “I have to tell you some things, Robertson. There are men—powerful men—who sometimes have to compromise by committing various evils for the greater good. This you must trust. And these men require the absolute need to privacy.” Michelle’s thoughts lead briefly to the mystery man on the phone call from his office. “This you can relate to, I’m sure. There’re times when we have to bend a rule here or there to get real justice.”
Michelle realizes this is one of those situations in life where one should respond fittingly. “I do understand, Captain. I really do. I have a good life, and even though they may be racing their cars around and sleeping with prostitutes, I…I believe we have Kimberly’s killer behind bars, and that’s the end of it for me. That is all that I care about now.”
He grins; he knows she is holding her tongue, yet he discerns, in time, she will learn to hold fast to her own words. “All right, then I want you to spend the day with Fredo. I know he can be a bit challenging to work with, but I need you to fill him in on everything you know or that you think you know. Tell him any and all ideas you and Cools may have, and then we’ll get you reassigned to something else tomorrow, okay?”
“Thank you, Captain; thank you so much.” She squeezes his big hands.
“All right, wait here; Fredo will be in shortly. I have to give a press conference. If you need anything, do not hesitate to call—for anything, anytime.” He gets up to leave.
“I will, and thanks again; thank you.”
He takes one last look at her, gives her a wink, and exits the room. Then he walks to the bathroom, contemplating how to handle Cools. Three minutes later the urinal is finishing its flush, and he’s washing his hands, looking at himself in the mirror. My part is almost complete, he thinks.
Soon he leaves his reflection and returns to his office waiting area, where Misty Lakewoods says she wishes to speak to him. He ignores her request and orders, “I need you to call the media and schedule a press conference ASAP. The subject will be addressing the allegations of abuse and the reassignment of the investigating officers.”
“Yes, Captain, I can set that up in about an hour; sound good for you?”
“Yes, that’ll work, thank you.”
“Oh, and I renewed your subscription for
Car and Driver
.”
“All right, thanks.”
He then turns to enter his office, but she begs nervously for a moment of his time. “Captain, I would like to talk with you about possibly getting a raise. I feel that it is due and that I deserve one…I’m sure you would agree that I am a special asset and that I am worth it. You know that I know everything that goes on here.”
“All right, why don’t you schedule some time tomorrow, so we can go over the details.”
“Will do, then; and thank you, Captain,” she says, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, and I should tell you that Detective Cools had to leave.”
“He what? I told him to stay here!”
“Oh, I didn’t know…he just came out in a rush and said he had to go. That’s all I can tell you.”
Captain Jackson opens the door and glares at the empty chair where Cools should be sitting. Then he finds the note notifying him that he’s heeded his advice. This soothes his nerves
.
I
nside his personal cell, Joshua spends his days watching them talk about him on the news, writing in a journal he has started, and reading the little notes that get slipped under his door. After a small charitable donation of thirty-five hundred dollars was made to Sergeant Willis’s, his day guard, vacation fund, he is now privy to all that goes on concerning the inner workings of his case. He knows that Kimberly hasn’t been found. He knows that his two favorite detectives are being reassigned; he knows that the smile he wears is warranted. His one and only burden is his visions of little Frankie. He fears for the boy who’s been lost to a world of drugs, murder, and disarray.
.
T
wo days later, a security guard stationed at the metal detector at Puget Sound Bank and Trust spies another customer approaching: a tall, well-shaped man with natural good looks. Somewhat oddly, though, the man motions him aside for a private question. “Hi, I’m Detective Cools from the Seattle Police Department,” he says, as he opens his sport jacket, displaying a gold-covered badge and a Beretta 9 mm. The security guard sizes him up until he’s satisfied that everything is kosher, then pushes a button and tells him to go on in.
He walks in, admiring the enormity of the building. The ceilings are three stories high. Twin marble staircases lead upward toward open offices. He uses the stairway to his left, hopping every other step till he crests the third floor. Normally he would be out of breath, but today his energy level is high. Even his spirit is elevated, since lately he’s been thinking a good deal about his life: who he is compared to whom he aspires to be; what the important things are in life. He has come to conclude that he’s not one man whose sole purpose on earth is to singlehandedly save it. Rather, he’s here to enjoy the gifts of the world and to share them through others. He’s becoming a changed man. And today an epiphany has revealed itself to him—Detective Bradley Cools is crazy in love.
The third floor is bustling with action, men in suits and women in skirts moving around carrying folders and checking their text messages. He catches a hurried young woman and asks, “Where’s Chelsea Simmons’s office? I know it’s up here somewhere…I just don’t know where.”
She points to a chiseled relief hanging above large black doors that reads Executive Offices. “Go in there; her office is down the hall.”
“Thank you,” he says as he turns, pressing forward. His heart races, and he feels that his new life cannot begin until all that is contained within him is fully disclosed. Through the executive doors, the hallway turns to the right. It is absent of any windows, only doors every thirty feet. He searches the nameplates. I have to tell her I love her; I have to convince her to run away with me. Near the end he locates her title written on a black plaque: Chelsea Simmons, Executive Account Manager. Under the inscription an intercom displays a blue-lit call button. He pushes it and asks, “Chelsea Simmons, please?”
Chelsea, sitting at her desk, clicks her mouse, opening the perimeter security camera; she cannot believe who she sees. The intercom instantly speaks back, “Brad? What are you doing here?”
“Well, uh…open up and let me in. I need to talk to you.” The door buzzes open. He steps in as she stands behind her desk. She is radiant, wearing a formfitting black skirt buttoned tight over a silky auburn blouse. Her hair is pinned up. And the entire far wall of windows not only offers a sunlit city view, but shines an orange glow upon her.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, smiling heartily.
He moves to her, gently captures her hands in his, and sits her down in one of the guest chairs; she is even more beautiful viewed from above.
