"I was wondering how long it would take you to show up here."
Eric Randolph's face was emotionless, his body language unreadable as he sat in the middle of his expensive leather couch, an unlit Cuban cigar in his mouth and a poorly concealed revolver carelessly shoved into his pants right above the belt buckle.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mike could see Steve reach for his holster again, allowing him to do so this time around, as he slowly entered the foyer leading to the massive living room.
"Mister Randolph?"
"Eric J. Randolph, Executive Producer for the "Roy Responds" mid-afternoon talk show.", he mumbled proudly and played with the cigar in his mouth, before continuing, "A long running self-help show geared toward people who struggle and want to improve their lives with the help of the charismatic and compassionate talk show host Roy Sullenger, featured on your favorite entertainment network, Channel 9."
Slightly cautious of the careless tone in Randolph's voice, Mike continued his slow approach until he was across from their suspect, his knees almost touching the mahogany living room table that divided them.
"I am Lieutenant Michael Stone, this is my partner, Inspector Stephen Keller. If ehm…if you've been expecting us, then you know why we are here, Mister Randolph."
Behind him, Steve followed strict protocol and began to fan out to the right, increasing target area in case the man thought about starting a shootout. From that angle, the young Inspector would have a clean killing shot if necessary.
"What can I say, no good deed remains unpunished."
With a shrill laugh that made both detectives flinch, Randolph pulled the cigar from his mouth, before carelessly tossing it onto the nearby side table and reaching for a glass of brandy, a smile on his face as he continued his speech.
"I can't blame you two, you're just doing your jobs, the kind of stuff you get paid to do. Solve crimes, handcuff people, fill out paperwork. It's a tough yet boring job, not rewarding by any means. But you are tied to your city, your entire career is all about what you do in this city. We in television, well, we have bigger aspirations, and a far bigger audience. You can change people's behavior one parking ticket at a time, but us… we can change whole generations, inspire people, create emotions and political movements that act like a tidal wave flooding this entire country. We're big, and we're damn good at what we're doing. The people love us. Our shows have high rankings. The quotas of our network have seen double digit growth in the past three years."
"Why did you kill Roy Sullenger and Andrea Williams?"
Steve's voice was sterile, except for the faint trembling only an experienced soul like Mike would be able to detect.
"Roy was losing his touch. And with it, so did his show. He'd been basking in the limelight for the past five years, getting more and more advertising contracts, rising to fame not just on a local scale, but a national one. People loved him, he had fan clubs all over the place, fat, sex-deprived desperate house wives lusting for him each afternoon while they're busy folding laundry or changing their kid's crapped up diaper… it was absolutely perfect. Then, last year, things began to crumble. First came that divorce, then some gambling and drinking trouble here and there, then the idiot girlfriend, then he told himself that he was emotionally exhausted. I offered to have him take a two-week hiatus, you know, go travel someplace and clear your head. But instead, he started to get into this esoteric bullshit with this mind reader woman. Seemed that the longer he hung out with her, the worse his life advice on the show became, go figure."
"So you cancelled him out to save your own career…"
It wasn't as much of a question as it was a condemning statement, which wouldn't help their cause much in the long run. Quite aware of the pitch in his partner's tone, Mike briefly glanced over at Steve, enough to let him know that he'd be taking over from here, before things could escalate.
"What was I supposed to do?", Randolph fired back and helped himself to another sip of brandy, "He was ruining himself and everybody associated with the show. It was either he or all of us."
Mike pursed his lips for a moment, duly noting the confession both he and Steve witnessed, before moving on.
"Why'd you kill Miss Williams, once Sullenger was out of the way?"
Another chuckle echoed through the cathedral ceilings of the vast living room, as Randolph reached up to wipe his teary eyes in a spell of manic amusement, his laughs quickly turning into some guttural noise Mike presumed was an attempt at a half-concealed sob.
"She saw me kill Sullenger. She was there that morning for some godforsaken reason, like they were about to meet someplace close by and she was waiting for him down at the corner. I was going to look for him at the bar, and then when I saw him walking home, I decided to stop and talk sense into him. I asked him about that stupid leather jacket and things got out of control, we argued and pushed each other around for a while, and before I knew it, I could only see red and I grabbed the closest thing I could find to get him to shut up. Ironically, this…chick saw it and tried to blackmail me once you guys got involved. I had to shut her up before she could tell you guys. How funny that as some crystal ball future teller, she didn't see my attack coming, eh? Sorry about hitting you upside the head, Kid, but I had to get you out of the way. You can understand that, I'm sure."
When his attempt at a smile failed miserably, Randolph cringed instead, then finished his glass of brandy in blissful peace.
"What did you do with Marietti?"
Unnerved by the calmness of the man ahead of him, a suspect who'd just confessed to two murders and exuded the excitement of a box turtle despite police presence around, Mike glanced across the room, trying to ensure they weren't walking into a trap, some manic murder-suicide scheme he'd always been horrified of dealing with.
Much to his surprise, many of the walls were bare, the few book shelves and a stereo set showed a light sprinkling of dust. All in all, the sterility of the outside of the house was matched by the emptiness of its inside.
"Who's that?"
"The man who owns the farm up north. The place Sullenger would visit to…to get away from things."
"Oh, that guy.", noting the Lieutenant's increasing agitation, Randolph chuckled again, and ran a hand through his wavy dark brown hair, "Just heard of him, never dealt with him. Nah, you can't tie this one on me. I know who I killed or didn't kill."
As he drew in a deep breath, Mike gestured toward the front door, sensing a confrontation long before it ever happened.
"Under those circumstances, I hope you understand why we are going to have to ask you to accompany us to our headquarters downtown."
His initial nod turned into a headshake, as Randolph's brown eyes scanned both detectives intently, before he carelessly threw the empty glass over his shoulder, where it burst into a million pieces on the expensive marble floor.
"Yeah, I don't think that's going to happen, gentlemen."
Surprisingly fast, even for his military background, Randolph reached for the revolver by his belt buckle, and aimed it at Mike's chest with a look of undeniable determination on his face.
Even though the Lieutenant wasn't able to draw his gun in time, Steve had been decidedly faster, his revolver aimed at Randolph for a killing shot the same time the suspect did so with Mike.
"Just lower the gun. It's over with.", the young Inspector growled, sounding more annoyed than worried at the moment.
To his right, he could see Steve take a step closer, his legendary marksmanship just one brief nod of approval away from ending Randolph's life instantly.
"Maybe for you. But not for me.", the other man growled, and slowly rose from the couch, nearly tripping over the bottle of brandy he'd stored by his feet.
"It's over. Just come with us and we'll get this mess sorted out.", Mike explained soothingly, then carefully pointed toward his partner, "You don't want to die, believe me. But if you shoot me, well, Stephen here…he'll kill you."
"I won't come with you, and I won't allow for you guys to kill me. So, I guess we're having us a fine standoff then, don't we?"
"Wrong. If you remember your Army days, then you should know that we radio in our position before entering potential unfriendly territory. Which means, if dispatch doesn't hear back from us in a few minutes, they're going to send backup this way. This place will be crawling with cops shortly."
Mike's explanation, although calm, seemed to have the opposite effect on Randolph, who exhaled sharply, his right index finger slowly curling around the trigger.
"You really like barking orders, don't you? I bet it makes you feel important. And yet, you have such an unimpressive and dirty job, cleaning up after other people's affairs. It needs no creativity. No thinking for yourself, just following protocol. It'll never bring you any fame, much less money. When you're not busy sitting in your fancy cop car getting fat on doughnuts, you spend your sorry days scurrying through filthy alleys and digging through dumpsters looking for clues that may or may not be there. You poke at dead bodies and feel empowered when you can push regular citizens around with your badge, but deep inside you're as insecure and depressed as the rest of us. Because of that, you really ought to thank people like me who offer you entertainment, a getaway from your pathetic life each night, even if it's only for a few hours. Because without me and the work I put into producing great shows, your kind likes to just sit on the couch all night hashing out the past, realizing that you've made no damn bit of a difference in the lives of the citizens of this city. And while you sit there, going over each case, each pointless work day and without the backing of your buddies in blue, you're toying with the idea of blowing your brains out because you finally realize that you are a worthless piece of human trash, that you have accomplished nothing, absolutely zero, and never will, in this career you so proudly call honorable."
Biting his lip for a moment, Mike was about to answer when a shot disrupted the tense silence, followed by Randolph's revolver flying through the air, before sliding across the floor. Gasping in surprise, the man tumbled backwards and fell into the couch, as a crimson stain began to form over his right collarbone, the injury making his arm dangle uselessly.
Mike glared over at Steve, more sternly then intended, only to receive an indifferent shrug in return.
Randolph's groans were the only noise in the otherwise still living room for the longest time, followed by a carefully chosen assortment of expletives they both decided to ignore.
As the adrenalin made both detectives tremble, Mike took a shuddered breath, clearing his mind, finally able to appreciate the fact that his partner not just saved his life, but in turn preserved that of their murder suspect also.
When he turned around to meet the young Inspectors eyes, Steve smiled insecurely, before putting his revolver away, as he reached for the handcuffs.
"Sorry Michael, but I've never been a fan of pointless standoffs and longwinded speeches."