Read Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." for Free Online

for her, always comes first. He raises his hands in defense. “You know we cannot let information like that leak. We couldn’t prove it, and no one wants to look incompetent in the face of the public.”
    “You let him off because you didn’t want to look bad?” she wails.
    “Remember, William was representing him; we had to make certain concessions.”
    “Concessions? Concessions!”
    “Look, Tabatha,” he says, holding out his hands, gesturing for a truce, “it makes no sense to try a man for something we cannot prove.” Tabatha doesn’t reply. “We have a responsibility not to supply ideas to the public; they’re much better served believing that forensics, that CSI will uncover any crime.”
    Then silence. They both linger for a minute, cooling down. “Okay, I see your point,” she says, retaking her chair, switching gears. Between a few smiles and soft eyes, she apologizes for her outburst. They talk for a while until their emotions subside and a bit of playful flirting finds its way back into their little chat. Wanting more, she invites him to her apartment for some late-night conversation and a few drinks. He responds to her advances in a way Tabatha has only experienced a few times in her life: he refuses the offer. Disappointed she leaves as sassy as she came, thinking that whoever the woman is in his life, he must really love her.

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    Chapter Five
    A t 9:58 p.m., at The Shelter, a dark, quiet bar in Pioneer square, one of the oldest parts of the city, Cools sits in a round booth all to himself. It’s a place where nobody asks any questions. An ashtray and a bottle of Jameson are resting in front of him—the usual routine. Already feeling the alcohol he replays in his mind the interview with Tabatha, mostly thinking about what information he’d given her and how she might weave it into a lead story, mixed among a few innocent thoughts of ravishing her on his desk. A slight wave of guilt enters his mind, as he admires the treasured details of the barroom. Everything is either dark brown or black. The walls are covered in wood veneer that reflects only dim light coming from behind the bar. And the steady rhythmic shadows from the ceiling fan mounted high above provide tranquility—the ideal place to meditate. There, in deep thought, he stares into the bottle, watching the liquid roll round and round. It comforts him more than the thick leather cushions of the booth—his booth. He’s actually never seen anyone else in it—his private harbor from the rest of the world. Even the sounds in the bar are kept low to his liking; no music plays; only muffled conversation makes its way back to where he is perched alone, judging humanity.
    The Shelter is not a cop bar, actually more the opposite; it is a private club owned and operated by the Khruschev’s, an old-school gangster family from the Ukraine. And even though the Khruschev’s are no longer the organized crime organization they were in the ’80s and ’90s, they aren’t exactly the Boy Scouts either. Most everyone—including the family themselves and, certainly, Cools’s coworkers—finds it odd that he drinks here.
    But then again few know the real tale.
    Eighteen years ago, while a young Officer Cools was leaving the scene of a shoplifting—the usual grab and run by a couple of local youths—something caught his attention. It was his first year on the force. And for reasons he can no longer remember, he was without his partner on that bright and sunny day. So as he walked alone past a dirty alleyway filled with overflowing dumpsters and newspapers blowing in the wind, he saw what appeared to be three big guys roughly escorting a fourth into the remote back entrance of The Shelter.
    The man being tossed inside had obviously been severely beaten and didn’t look to be visiting for drinks and laughs. So Cools dropped his paperwork and unsnapped his holster before quickly making his way down the stinking alley. He was a lot faster in those