The Puppeteer's Game

Chapter 9

Where the Numbers End

The briefing room felt like it was holding its breath.

Tension hung thick in the air. The projector hummed softly, nearly drowned by the rustle of pinned case files. At the table's end, Emily Rodriguez sat with folded arms, eyes fixed on the man by the whiteboard like he was a puzzle that didn't fit.

Inspector Diego Monteverde.

He showed up ten minutes early—of course, he did. His magazine-worthy suit didn't belong at a crime scene, and he placed his pristine, aged notebook on the table as if it were sacred. He exuded calm confidence, the kind that owned a room. Emily hated it.

Miguel Sanchez stood beside the projector, arms crossed, his silence deliberate. Watching. Waiting.

Diego turned his gaze toward Emily, a smirk ghosting across his face. "So," he said, flipping open his notebook with a bit too much flair, "this is the part where I win everyone over with charm and a ten-point deduction model, right?"

Emily didn't even blink. "Skip the charm. We're here to solve a case, not audition for your fan club."

He let out a low chuckle, hand to chest in exaggerated offense. "Rodriguez, right? The profiler with a mean right hook—in the field and probably in real life."

"She's also been running point on this case for weeks," Miguel said, voice even but laced with subtle warning. He didn't look away from Diego.

"I know," Diego replied smoothly. "Her reports were the only thing in the file dump that didn't read like a caffeinated intern wrote them. Honestly, I thought someone from Internal Affairs finally figured out how to string sentences together."

Emily glanced over. Her face stayed neutral, but she was definitely listening now.

"If you're going to flatter me, at least make an effort to sound sincere."

Diego grinned. "I never do anything halfway. Just ask my ex-wife."

Emily sighed, setting her pen down with a crisp, unimpressed tap. "Sarcasm. Wonderful. Let's add that to the evidence board. Can we talk about the ledger now?"

Miguel didn't say anything. If he was entertained, it didn't show.

Emily slid the old ledger across the table. As it landed, the air thickened with ink and mildew. Diego leaned in, eyes narrowing as he flipped through the brittle pages.

"Here we go," he murmured. His finger paused on a line of symbols. "These aren't random. This one—" he pointed, "—matches a mark from the Vega ritual case, '94. And this... this is close to a symbol from the Greystone records. You've got patterns here. Echoes, even. Maybe fingerprints."

Emily found herself leaning in, curiosity overriding annoyance. "I already flagged the Vega connection."

"I know," Diego said, not looking up. "I read your notes. I just wanted to hear you say it. Professional courtesy."

She muttered something under her breath in Spanish—half irritation, half reluctant acknowledgment.

Miguel allowed the faintest twitch of a smile—quick, quiet, and gone just as fast. He didn't say a word, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes as he watched everything unfold.

The ledger was open now. So was the tension. And if anyone was still wondering, the real investigation had just begun.

Diego moved slowly in front of the evidence board, flipping through the pages of the old ledger, the light from the projector throwing long shadows across the dim room. On the table beside him, faded crime scene photos from decades past lay in a loose spread.