Playing Jacks

v. Life is a Puzzle, part 1

Sophie is left alone to ponder her tepid coffee in a small room, her eyes periodically drifting to the ominous window, disguised as a large mirror.  Just on the other side, two men scratch their heads and review their evidence.

On the table before them, there’s a photograph of a room splattered in blood.  The carpet is soaked with it, a trail leading away into the margins.  Another shot shows blood in a car garage.  Yet another: the body of Marie Mancuso, Bryce Mancuso’s first wife, shot in the head execution style.  The dirt is saturated with her blood.  Her eyes stare into the sky, her jaw set with defiance. 

“Two crime scenes, one body,” Agent Callan grumbles, rubbing his eyes as if everything would appear clearer upon re-examination.  It doesn’t.

“That’s Sophie Mancuso’s New York apartment,” the other asserts, his thick finger jabbing the photograph as if it personally offended him.  “That’s her parking spot in the garage.  And we’ve got video that puts Marie Mancuso in the apartment . . .”

“But the coroner said that Marie died in that spot,” Callan argues, pointing to the shaded, green patch of ground. “If she died there” he demands, pointing at the photograph at the park, “how did her blood get there?” He continues, now indicating Sophie’s empty apartment. 

The two men stare at the photograph, perplexed.   One hits a button and listens, again to Maria’s voicemail. “How dare you call and threaten me!  I know your phone number!  Your email!  Where you live!  I can make your life miserable!!!” 

“The blood in the apartment was from an injury.  She dragged the body to her car, took her to the park and finished her off,” the other offers.

But Callan is already shaking his greying head.  “There’d be a path.  The body would have marred the dirt.” 

“She made her walk.”

“No blood,” Callan refutes again. “Injury bleeds like that and then goes dry for a walk through the park?  No way.”  Tossing his paper cup into the trash, Agent Callan offers another plan of action. “She says she was at Jykell Island.  I say we check it out.”

“Well, duh,” the other says with a roll of the eyes. “But she said no one there saw her.”

“If she was there someone, somewhere saw her,” Callan snaps. “We talk to people: the neighbors, the beach combers, the shop owners, the rambling gypsies- if that’s what it takes.”

“She was in New York,” the other refutes with a discontent grumble.  “Sophie Amando killed Marie Mancuso.”

 “Not our job to say so,” Callan snips back. “We follow the evidence.”

Sophie contemplates the dregs of coffee at the bottom of her paper cup and idly wonders if one can forecast a future with coffee like they do with tea.  Exactly what would hers say? 

“Your life is stained, gritty and headed straight for the trash bin.”

A humorless laugh escapes Sophie’s lips- though the joke was poor.  One must laugh at something when losing the last of one’s life. 

“Ms. Amando,” Agent Callan calls from the door, startling her from her ponderings. “I believe we have all we need for now.”

A quick nod and a jerky snatch of her purse later, Sophie exits one of the most unpleasant rooms she’s had the misfortune to know.  “What now?” She asks the man escorting her through the drab hallways.

“Just go about your life as usual, Ms. Amando,” Callan informs her, his voice flat and bored. “We’ll find you if we need you.”

Of that fact Sophie had absolutely no doubt. Standing at the threshold between weary office and grey rain, Sophie ponders half-formed questions that mill around the forefront of her mind- and dismisses them just as quickly.  Bryce had once coached her on how to speak to the FBI.  Rule one: Shut up.