Playing Jacks

xii. Life's a Game We're Meant to Lose, part 1

xii. Life is a Game We’re Meant to Lose. (You’ll stand by me if I stand by you.)

“Callan, you just about got that Mancuso murder wrapped up?”

Callan nods from where he sits at his desk, absently lifting a file to the speaker as he works.  The man over him hums a thoughtful sound as he looks over the contents. “So the murderer isn’t in custody?”

“No sir, not yet, but we’ve got a lead on his whereabouts,” Callan informs him.

The man over him chuckles, rereads a section, then laughs again, shaking his head. “People are screwed up.”

Callan breaks away from his paperwork to look at the man scrutinizing his report. “I won’t disagree but what, in particular, is so messed up this time?”

“The secondary site-- you think that Marie Mancuso did this to the apartment herself?” He asks incredulously.

Callan nods and rises to gather some papers scattered over his desktop.  He taps their edges, lining them up as he speaks. “She gave blood the day before she was scheduled to leave and then stole it right from the blood bank.  Used it to plant evidence on the walls, the hallways, even the garage but when that didn’t prove enough, she used pig’s blood to saturate the carpet.  Guess she really wanted it to look like someone had died there.   She called Sophie Amando’s phone and left the message, making it sound as if Sophie had been threatening her and headed to the airport to make her escape.  With any luck, people would think she was dead and the woman who stole her husband was the one that killed her.”

“Revenge and escape all in one,” the man beside him muses, sounding a little impressed. “Except . . .”

“Except that Keaton caught up with her in the airport parking lot and . . .” Callan gestures to the file in his hand, indicating the subsequent murder.

“Bang,” the other man fills in, his fingers making a mock gun.  He shakes of his head. “It would’ve never worked.  Her little ploy had more holes than a blow-up doll.”

Callan shrugs. “Yeah, it was half-baked, but it put the spotlight right on Ms. Amando.  Don’t think that woman would still be alive if it weren’t for Marie’s harebrained scheme . . .” The phone rings, interrupting his thoughts. “Callan.”

He listens to his partner rattle off his latest theories on an unrelated case and adds his thoughts before the call wraps up.  Twenty minutes later and his visitor still waits on him, reading his file.  “You’ve got something else on your mind,” Callan notes, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes, sir, I do,” his guest agrees with an unsatisfied sigh.  Pulling out a glossy eight by ten photograph of a distinct motorcycle, he slaps it onto the desktop. “Tell me about the man that owns this bike.”

Black and chrome, it’s art with attitude; it’s beauty with purpose.  There isn’t another like it anywhere.

“Jacque LeBeau,” Callan answers with a scowl, his eyes never leaving the photograph. 

“Jacque LeBeau my ass,” the man next to him sneers. “Only one man rides a Harley like that- and he’s on our wanted list.”  He eyes Callan, his expression turning hard when the man doesn’t offer him a ready reaction- no word, no emotion.  “Did you really think I wouldn’t hear about his return?  I was assigned to this jack-hole for almost a year.”

“Then you know he was an asset . . .”

“I know this city’s a better place without him,” he growls.

Callan groans and falls into his desk chair. “What do you want, Cougar?”

“I want him out of my country,” Cougar demands.  When Callan doesn’t respond, he leans over the desk- his proximity emphasizes his words. “I’m sure you’re aware of what your old buddy’s been up to.  We’re bringing him in, Callan, and you can’t protect him . . . not without going down with him.  You hear me?”