Do You Want To Play: A Detroit Police Procedural Romance (13 page)

TOBIAS AND POLICE OFFICER Duffy sit in the front seat of the police car as I am taken to Wayne County Jail. Tobias drives as Duffy talks to him about how the Detroit Tigers should be doing better than they are, considering they set the record last year for striking out fifty-seven Oakland batters. Tobias is silent the whole time, occasionally glancing back at me, but Duffy doesn’t notice.

Tobias slows the car to a stop. Ahead of us, two vehicles are wrecked in the middle of the road. A Chevrolet Malibu’s side is crushed. Behind it, the front of a red Toyota Tundra is concaved. Duffy unbuckles his seatbelt.

“We should make sure everyone is okay,” he says. He opens the door and walks out toward the car crash. Tobias glances back at me.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says. He takes out the car keys and gets out. I watch him approach a man who is clutching his arm. They are far enough way that I could escape and run a good distance away before anyone noticed, but with my arms locked behind my back, I wouldn’t get very far.

Something is wrong.

The red Toyota Tundra would have had to keep driving straight into the other car in order to cause that much damage, and the brake tracks of the Chevrolet Malibu travel too far for the driver of the Tundra to have stomped down on the brakes. Someone purposely hit that car and ensured that there was as much damage as possible.

The driver’s door wrenches open. A man jumps into the driver’s seat. He begins to unscrew the plastic cover on the steering column with a screwdriver.

“Who are you?” I ask, my whole body tense.

“I’m here to save you,” he says. He’s tall, slim, and as he strips away the insulation of the battery wires and twists them together, I can see his hands are finely boned.

“…You’re the killer,” I say. His messy brown hair shifts as he looks over his shoulder and winks at me before connecting the ignition on/off wire to the combined battery wires. His dark brown eyes are large, but they could just seem that way because of the excitement that is pulsating from his whole body. The dash lights come on.

“I know you,” I say.

“You do,” he says. He strips down the starter wire and touches it against the battery wires. “I think you know me better than anyone has ever known me. You understand. That’s why I have to save you.”

I try to reach for the door handle, but I only fall over onto my side. He revs the engine.

“Hey!”

Tobias’ voice makes us both start. The killer jams the screwdriver into the metal keyhole, breaking the steering lock. He presses his foot onto the gas pedal. Speeding down the road, the side of the car grazes against Tobias as we pass by the accident. I hear Tobias’ fist hit against the trunk as he tries to keep up with the police car, but the killer easily loses him.

This was not part of the plan.

~~~~~

I watch cars pass by on the thruway. I’ve thought about jumping out a thousand times, but we haven’t been on any road where he was driving under 45 mph, and he is not someone I want to piss off. I need to make him believe that I am in love with him in the same way that he is in love with me. I need to switch to survival mode—like a video game…survive until I die.

We have been mostly silent except for the killer’s telling me about how he had to save me and we needed to escape from the police’s surveillance. Sometimes I told him I agreed with his sentiment. Sometimes I didn’t say anything.

The killer drives up to the Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport. He pulls up to the curb where loved ones are saying goodbye to each other. As he unbuckles his seatbelt, I see a .45 in the waist of his pants.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

“We need to get a different car,” he says. “Everyone is going to be looking for this police car. We need something less noticeable.”

“And you need the gun?”

“Sometimes people need help being persuaded,” he says. He steps out of the car. I follow him out. I look at all of these people—clearly loved and clearly with future plans. I have to get the killer away from the airport.

We walk along the sidewalk. He suddenly turns around and I run straight into him. He wraps his arms around me and I have to stop myself from pulling away. He bows his head near my ear.

“We’re going for the Honda Civic,” he whispers. “The woman who was driving it just got out and it looks like she is having a passionate goodbye with her boyfriend. I’m going to get this woman’s keys. Casually get into the passenger side and I’ll get into the driver’s side.”

I nod. As long as we get him away from this crowd, it sounds like a good plan.

He steps back. He moves toward a woman who is kissing a man and handing him a bag. The killer bumps into her and I see his hand slip into a small pocket on the side of her purse. The keys disappear into his hand.

I move toward the car, pretending to be searching for keys in my pockets. I grab the handle to the car and jump in as the killer does the same on the driver’s side. He puts the keys into the keyhole and starts the car. He shifts the car into drive and as he presses down on the gas pedal, I hear a hand banging on the side of the car. I look into the side mirror to see the woman screaming at us, fear written all over her face.

My adrenaline slows as the killer gets back onto the main road. Now that my heart rate is slowing, I smell something that I haven’t smelt in a long time. The scent reminds me of powder and silk for some reason.

Baby powder, to be exact.

I look over my shoulder. A small baby—maybe a few months old—lies asleep in a car seat, oblivious to the dangerous world it has been forced into.

~~~~~

The killer drives the stolen Honda Civic down Interstate 75.

I keep turning around to look at the baby. He has his saliva-covered fist in his mouth. He smiles when I look at him, but I can only assume that it’s gas.

“We should drop him off at a hospital or something,” I say.

“No,” the killer says. “We can’t get caught on any camera. We can’t let them know what way we’re heading.”

“This baby needs things…milk…diapers…a mother,” I say.

“You can be the baby’s mother,” he says. I spin back around to face him.

“I can’t be a mother,” I say. “That’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t want children?” he asks. I search his eyes. I’m wary that he will get rid of the child in a different way if he thinks that I don’t want it.

“Of course I want children,” I say. “I just…I want to make sure the baby has food.”

“I can get it once we stop somewhere,” he says. “Your picture will be all over the news.”

“Where are we going now?” I ask.

“I was thinking Missouri,” he says. “There’s plenty of wide open spaces where nobody would see us and recognize us. Maybe we could eventually get new identities and fly up to Alaska. Nobody would be able to find us there. What do you think?”

“Sounds good,” I say. I chew on my lip, a nervous tic I had gotten rid of when I was in high school, but apparently the moment warrants returning to the habit. In comparison, he seems relaxed, leaning onto the center console. He opens his hand, exposing his palm. It reminds me of a flower blossoming in the way that his fingers unfurl. But this is not a flower. It’s a Venus flytrap, luring me in with sweetness, waiting for me to land on it so that it can consume me.

I put my hand in his. He closes his hand around mine, gripping it tight.

~~~~~

“YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?” I ask FBI agent Swanson. “You created this whole plan behind my back?”

“Well…Miss Williams created the whole plan,” he says. “She just told a few of us in case the plan didn’t work, so she didn’t spend her life in prison.”

“So, the gun wasn’t really hers?” I ask. A patrol officer walks into the break room, grabbing a coffee cup out of the cupboard. He suddenly becomes aware of the tension in the room. He slowly sets the coffee cup on the counter and walks back out of the room. Swanson shakes his head.

“Oh, the gun was hers,” he says. “Passed down from her grandfather. But Benjamin made up the ballistics report and she knew you would eventually find it. She said that you hate the cold and a cold draft would annoy anyone. Seriously, she has sent you into the pantry at least four times since she put the gun there.”

“That’s why she kept talking about motive…” I say, shaking my head. “But why bring in Arnold? A prosecutor?”

“We thought that the killer wouldn’t intervene until the case had begun,” Swanson says. “The plan was that Miss Williams would make it seem like she was being accused of the killer’s crimes. The fact that a detective was involved in the killer’s case would make headlines and the news would get back to him. The PVP killer, who we now know is in love with her—no thanks to you—would want to save her from being prosecuted for his own crimes. At some point while being taken to and from the prison, he would try to rescue her. My FBI team would swing in and protect her. We didn’t think he would make a move this quickly.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” I say.

“The only person from the precinct we told was Benjamin,” he says. “And we didn’t tell him the whole thing, we just told him what to tell you. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that cops are terrible liars and you, Mr. Rodriguez, are terrible at lying. Your constant sarcasm proves that. You wear your emotions on your sleeve, and Miss Williams didn’t want you to know about the plan because she knew you would refuse to let it happen.”

“For good reason!” I shout. “Now she’s missing with the killer.”

“He won’t kill her,” Swanson says. “He’s in love with her.”

“Mr. Swanson, I was a police officer before I was a detective and I cannot tell you how many husbands and boyfriends I met that loved their significant other and killed them anyway,” I snarl. “We are dealing with a sociopath. He doesn’t follow normal logic.”

“Well, it would have been a little bit helpful if you saw the killer’s face,” Swanson says. “It is not completely our fault, so don’t put all of that blame on us.”

Jacobs rushes into the break room.

“Do you know how we sent out a BOLO for Miss Williams?” he asks.

“Please tell me that someone saw her,” Swanson says.

“Someone did. At Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport. We have security guards searching the premises and agents are headed there, but it seems like they have already left.”

Swanson pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell them to start looking at all of the surveillance footage.”

“Do you think he’s trying to find a plane to leave the state?” Jacobs asks.

“No,” I say. Both agents turn to look at me. “He’s smart. He would know the airport is being watched right now. If I were him…that’s where I would steal another car.”

Swanson nods. “It seems like it was more of a pit stop.”

Jacobs nods and runs out of the room. I turn to Swanson.

“So, was Lauren’s juvie record and her story about her motive true?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” Swanson says. “By the way, she was quite angry that you were so hard on her during interrogation.”

“She was angry?” I say. “She didn’t tell me that she was planning to use herself as bait again.”

“Well, you didn’t handle it very well last time.”

“Last time it didn’t work. And it didn’t work this time either,” I say. “Am I the only one who sees this pattern?”

My phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize. Every muscle in my body wants me to press
Ignore
because there are bigger problems in my life than telemarketers, but my thumb presses
Answer
instead.

“Hello?” I ask.

“I’m guessing you know all about the plan,” Lauren says. I feel all of the air leave my lungs.

“I do,” I say. “And I am angry, but right now we need to know where you are.”

Swanson’s whole body straightens up. He makes hand motions, telling me to put my phone on speaker, but I ignore him.

“I’m at a Hearty grocery store in Romulus,” she says. “I told him I was going to go to the bathroom, but there was a phone booth back here too, so…I called. But he’s right down the hall, so I need to go.”

“Stall him,” I say. “Tell him that you have feminine issues that you need to take care of or that you have stomach—”

“I have to go,” she says, her voice hurried. “I love you.”

She hangs up. Her words still echo in my ear. I didn’t get the chance to say it back.
I love you.

“Where is she?” Swanson asks.

“Hearty grocery store in Romulus,” I say.

He dials on his cellphone and puts it up to his ear.

“This is Agent Swanson,” he says into his phone. “We need agents headed to Hearty grocery store in Romulus.”

He ends the call and bows his head as if he were praying. I grab my coat.

“What are you doing?” he asks without looking up.

“I’m going to help search for her,” I say.

“My agents will beat you there,” he says. “Let them do their job.”

“I already let your agents do your job,” I say. Besides, I lied about not seeing the killer’s face. I have the need to put a bullet in it for everything he has done.

~~~~~

One of the police officers that went with the FBI agents to the Hearty in Romulus uses the police radio to inform everyone that Lauren and the killer are not in the grocery store. They aren’t thinking straight. You never hit a target by aiming at where it is. You aim ahead of it, and I know where the killer is heading. I had to look it up on my computer, so if Swanson becomes suspicious, he will be able to look up what I searched for on my computer, but it will already be too late. I know what I have to do.

I see the sign proclaim
Welcome to Monroe!
I turn onto Main Street. I glance at my scribbled notes, trying to figure out if the address I wrote down says 6123 Greenwycke Lane or 6125 Greenwycke Lane. I type the first address into my cellphone’s GPS. When I drive up to the apartments, I notice only one difference between them. The 6125 Greenwycke Lane house has a fall wreath on it. 6123 Greenwycke Lane does not. I park in front of 6127 Greenwycke Lane. I don’t need the killer to be aware that I’m here yet. I put my gun in its holster and get out of the car. I walk up to 6123 Greenwycke. I try to turn the doorknob, but it doesn’t budge.

I move around the house. As I’m about to pass by one of the windows in the back, I see movement. I peek into the house to see Lauren with a baby on her hip as she jots something down on a notepad. The shock of seeing her with a child is dulled by the fact that I have a mission. I may only have one chance.

Before I move, Lauren glances out toward the window, as if she senses me. Her eyes capture me like they did the first time I saw her, but there is something there that hadn’t existed before. Loss of hope. Despair. Acceptance of the inevitable.

I point left and right, asking her silently where the killer is. She tilts her head to the right before focusing on the child again. I keep creeping around the house until I reach another window. The killer is burning something. I look up at his walls and see newspaper clippings of the PVP killer’s murders and antics intermixed with random photographs of Lauren—getting into her car, getting out of my car, leaving a coffee shop, undressing in her apartment.

I point my gun at the killer and pull the trigger.

~~~~~