Clean Getaway, Dirty Truth

A chandelier made of CLOTHESPINS. Table centerpieces: tiny WASHING MACHINES filled with roses. A banner: “SPIN FOR A CAUSE!”

A STRING QUARTET plays “WASH ME” (barely).

COLE MERCER, in a borrowed tux that’s one size too hopeful, scans the room. JUNO REYES, in a staff apron over a glitter dress, threads through guests with a tray of “DETERGENT MARTINIS.”

Onstage, MARIS VALE—regal, philanthropic—addresses the crowd beside a gleaming, custom LAUNDRY CHUTE labeled: “DONATIONS.”

Tonight, we cleanse more than clothes. We cleanse the city.

Polite laughter. Applause.

COLE (into his sleeve)

You sure your “treasure map” ends at a laundry chute?

JUNO (hissing)

It’s not a map. It’s a brochure fold pattern that spells “CHUTE.”

Rich people hide crimes in arts and crafts, Cole. Respect the craft.

Across the ballroom, DETECTIVE DANA HOLT stalks in—plainclothes, eyes like a warrant. She clocks Cole instantly.

Mercer.

Cole freezes. Juno smiles big—too big—and steps between them with her tray.

Detergent martini? It’s… crisp. Like guilt.

Out of my way, kid.

I’m nineteen.

Exactly.

Juno pivots, “accidentally” bumps Holt—TRAY TILTS—three martinis slide like curling stones across Holt’s shoes.

HOLT (stung)

Are those—

Non-staining. Charity-grade.

Holt lunges. Cole backs up—right into a WAITSTAFF CART stacked with folded TOWELS. The cart ROLLS.

Oh no. I’m being… aggressively moisturized.

Plan B! Towels are traction!

Cole rides the cart like a panicked king. Holt sprints after him, slipping on martini foam.

JUNO peels off toward the stage, eyes on the LAUNDRY CHUTE.

ONSTAGE: Maris accepts an envelope from a SOCIALITE, drops it into the chute with a ceremonial flourish.

Juno ducks behind the podium, fishes a compact MIRROR from her apron, angles it toward the chute opening—

In the reflection: inside the chute, a hidden conveyor and a METAL BIN stuffed with ENVELOPES—each stamped with a small POLICE EVIDENCE BARCODE.

JUNO (into comm)

Bingo. It’s a donation chute feeding an evidence laundering pipeline.

COLE (still riding cart)

Cool. How do we “force it into the open” before I die in terry cloth?

Juno spots the “SPIN FOR A CAUSE” centerpiece washers. Her grin turns feral.

We spin.

She yanks a POWER CORD from a centerpiece washer, darts to the stage’s AUDIO RACK, and PLUGS IT IN with reckless confidence.

The speakers POP. A loud WHIRRING rises—like a thousand laundromats awakening.

MARIS (tight smile)

Technical—?

The chandelier of clothespins begins to ROTATE. Slowly. Then faster.

Guests look up, confused. Clothespins start FLINGING like tiny wooden missiles.

A clothespin SNAPS onto a man’s toupee. Another clips a diamond earring. Chaos bubbles.

HOLT finally catches the cart—Cole tumbles out, lands on his feet, tux ripped at the shoulder.

I’m okay! My dignity’s in critical condition.

Holt grabs Cole’s arm—then sees Juno gesturing wildly at the chute.

Detective! In there! The “donations” aren’t donations!

This better not be another prank—

A clothespin nails Holt’s badge chain—YANKS it—badge FLIES and clatters near Maris’ heels onstage.

Maris looks down at it. Her smile doesn’t move, but her eyes sharpen.

COLE (to Holt)

You wanted the person steering the case? She’s emceeing it.

Holt looks from Cole to Maris—then to the chute—then back. Decision time.

Mercer. Don’t run.

That’s my second hobby.

Holt barrels toward the chute, shoves past panicking donors, and reaches inside—

Her hand grabs an envelope—barcoded—labeled in marker: “MERCER / ORIGINAL.”

Holt’s face changes. She turns, holding it up like a smoking gun.

HOLT (booming)

Everyone! This event is concealing police evidence!

The room GASPS. Phones come up.

Maris steps to the mic, silk-smooth.

Detective Holt… how brave. How clumsy.

She taps a discreet BUTTON on her ring.

The WHIRRING stops. The clothespin chandelier slows… and CLUNKS.

For a beat, silence.

Then the LAUNDRY CHUTE DOOR slams shut—mechanized—and a hidden panel onstage flips, revealing a sleek SIGN:

“VALE FOUNDATION: OFFICIAL PARTNER OF THE POLICE.”

Maris raises her hands, saintly.

MARIS (to the room)

She’s stealing donations. Look—evidence envelopes. A staged scandal.

Holt stares—realizing too late how it looks: a detective yanking “evidence” out of a charity chute.

Guests recoil from Holt. Security moves in.

Oh, that’s… diabolical.

She uno-reversed the entire police department.

Maris steps closer to Cole, voice low, almost kind.

Cole Mercer. Cleared… as promised.

Cole blinks—hope flickers.

MARIS (CONT'D)

By making you irrelevant.

Maris nods toward a giant SCREEN that suddenly lights up with LIVE BODYCAM FOOTAGE—Holt’s perspective—cropped, edited—showing Holt “planting” the Mercer envelope into her own jacket.

The crowd erupts.

Arrest her!

She’s corrupt!

That detective—

Holt lunges for the screen controls—SECURITY tackles her.

HOLT (to Cole)

Mercer! It’s fake—!

COLE locks eyes with Holt. She’s telling the truth. Again.

Juno grabs Cole’s hand.

If we stay, we’re accessories to a frame… with appetizers.

Cole looks at the envelope Holt pulled—his name—real.

That’s my exoneration.

And that’s your bait.

Maris watches them, serene, as if watching laundry tumble.

Go ahead. Run.

A clean man doesn’t flee.

Cole’s jaw tightens. He snatches the “MERCER / ORIGINAL” envelope from Holt’s grasp as security drags her.

Cole—don’t—

I’m sorry.

He pockets it.

Juno points to the centerpieces—mini washers—still humming.

Emergency exit is through the “Spin Stations.” Follow me.

They sprint—ducking clothespins—through a maze of tiny washers. Juno kicks one open—FOAM ERUPTS, flooding the floor like snow.

Cole and Juno SLIDE across the ballroom in a sudsy glide, knocking over a table of “Tide Pods for Tots” gift bags.

Guests scream, slipping. Security loses footing.

They hit the doors—

Cole and Juno burst out into the night, breathless, covered in foam. They don’t stop running.

Behind them, sirens start—more than one set.

Through the glass doors, Maris stands in the warm light, pristine, holding the mic like a gavel.

MARIS (O.S.)

Detective Mercer! Juno Reyes!

Stop!

Cole glances back—sees Holt being shoved into a cruiser. Sees Maris turn away, already back to charity smiles.

Cole opens the envelope as they run—inside: a SINGLE PHOTO… of COLE’S BADGE on a velvet tray.

Stamped across it: “PROPERTY TRANSFERRED.”

Juno peers at it.

That’s not exoneration.

It’s a receipt.

Cole looks up—eyes hard now.

COLE (CONT'D)

They didn’t just frame me.

They sold me.

A POLICE HELICOPTER spotlight sweeps over them—white, unforgiving.

Juno grabs Cole’s sleeve, yanks him into a dark alley.

Congrats, Detective.

On what?

On being innocent.

A beat. The spotlight searches closer.

JUNO (CONT'D)

Also… we’re fugitives.

Cole breathes out—half laugh, half despair.

So. Same as the whole season.

Yeah, but now we have the receipt.

They disappear into darkness as the sirens swallow the night.

TITLE CARD: BADGE LAUNDERERS