Playing Jacks

ix. Life's a Search

ix. Life’s a Search

“Do you know the whereabouts of Sophie Amando?” The voice on his cell phone demands, foregoing the usual greetings.

“You’re Callan’s partner,” Jacks notes, flatly ignoring the question.

“I have a name, you know,” he grumbles.

“Not that I can recall,” Jacks bites back, slumping back against the hotel bed’s headboard.  Shifting the pillows behind him, he stretches his long legs out in front of him and crosses his boots at the ankle. “And no, I haven’t seen Sophie for two days.”

The man on the other end of the conversation grunts an interested sound and seems to be writing something before, “Thank you.  Good-bye.”

“Wait,” Jacks barks and then stops himself.  Shouldn’t he just let the man go?  This wasn’t the line of questioning he was prepared to face.  Yesterday’s events have cut short his stay but it appears that his original purpose for this trip has to be abandoned, anyway.  His bags already packed by the door, his Harley already returned to storage, the taxi on its way and his flight due to leave in just hours- he should just say good-bye and be done with this conversation.

But that wasn’t the question he thought he would hear.  This isn’t the man he thought would call.  And most assuredly, he didn’t expect to hear Sophie’s name . . . unable to sit any longer, he swings his legs to the floor and stands to pace the small efficiency.

“Where’s Sophie?” Jacks demands, turning the question back on the FBI agent.

“Wish we knew.  Why, what do you know?”

“She’s been hanging around with one of your guys: an agent.  Called himself Thomas.  Thomas . . . Keaton.  She was supposed to be with him yesterday.”

“Mr. Mancuso, there is no Agent Keaton at our office.”

In the silence, Jacks has to force his sight to remain focused.   His hand grips the curtain in a tight fist, pulling it away from a few of the rungs.

“Mr. Mancuso?  Can you describe this Keaton fellow?”

“Haven’t seen him personally, but my kid-brother has.” 

There’s another silence, though it’s not absolute.  On the other side of the line is the soft scratch of pencil lead on paper.  “We’ll question him.”

“Not without me,” Jacks snips.  He watches the taxi roll to his door. “I’ll be there in less than twenty.”

“Uhm, gonna be a bit longer here.”

“And where is there?” Jacks snips.

“The apartment where we traced her phone.”

They found her phone, but not her; and time indicates evidence.  “Give me an address,” Jacks orders, his tone irrefutable.

Phone pressed to his ear, Jacks folds his long body into the taxi’s back seat and brusquely informs the airline of the changes he needs.  Surprisingly, no one argues.  Closing his phone, Jacks watches the Atlanta skyline whizz by his window.  Call it denial, but he can’t believe that his soft Sophie is dead.  Call it superstition, call it premonition, but it seems like he would know if she were gone.

But that doesn’t mean her time isn’t severely limited.

The cab deposits him at a respectable looking apartment building well outside Atlanta’s busy downtown.  Recognizing Callan’s car, Jacks throws his stuff into the backseat- figuring that he’ll be getting a ride one way or another- and follows the stream of police and FBI agents into a door.