Keep Them Close(29)

Ralphie, with those beady eyes and unattractive grin, said, There’s no such thing as an amateur anymore. I could buy something online these days, he explained, and for cheaper than what Ralphie would charge.

Suppose I don’t want any record of that particular transaction, I said.

Piece of cake, Ralphie said. He could help me out, as long as I could manage to spend a few minutes alone with the car’s key fob.

That was easy enough. I crashed a hangout Sunday morning at Luke’s, when Trinity was there. Her studio was closed over the weekend for some repairs or renovation—I didn’t really care why—and she was spending some time with her buddy Luke.

It was a simple matter of excusing myself, reaching into Trinity’s purse by the front door for the key fob, then taking it into Luke’s bathroom, where I pressed the RFID duplicator. Before I knew it, I had a matching key fob. I was ready to go.



* * *





At home, I found the three bottles of prescription Oxy I had stashed in my closet. I counted out a hundred pills and put them into the shopping bag from Trinity’s studio. Sure, I had 180 pills, but if I used them all, it would be too close for comfort to Finley’s exact scrips. Cut it in half to ninety, and it still made sense for a three-month supply; some people only take one a day. One hundred, on the other hand, felt like a nice round number for a drug dealer to sell.

And then, of course, I dropped the tube of Trinity’s lipstick into the bag with the pills.



* * *





Late one night, I snuck into the alley, beeped open Trinity’s trunk, and placed the shopping bag beneath the floorboard of her trunk. Then I talked Harp into tipping off law enforcement to be on the lookout for Trinity’s car on a Monday morning on I-57.



* * *





I will not apologize for what I did. Trinity had it coming. But what actually happened has tied my stomach in knots this week, beyond the worst-case scenario. I aimed for Trinity but hit my brother instead.

I will make this right. If the school tries to fire or suspend Luke, I’ll take them to court and get him reinstated. And the prosecution is testing the bag that contained the Oxy pills and the tube of lipstick for DNA and fingerprints. When those results come back, Trinity will be directly in the mix. The already weak, circumstantial case against Luke will collapse.

Luke will have his life back within a matter of a week or two.

And Trinity will be out of our lives for good.





22


Luke

In the administrative offices at Mortimer College, I sit on a leather bench, staring at a giant picture of our crest, resembling the logo of NBC television, a peacock with its tail plumage at full mast, though exclusively in purple and gold.

Plumage—another pompous word when you speak it, but there isn’t really a substitute. Tail feathers would work, I suppose. That reminds me of that Nelly song. He should get more credit for crossing over into country music. Everyone’s doing it now, but he was the first. At least I think he was.

Maybe I’m more nervous than I want to admit.

The door to the administrative offices opens. Denise steps out, running her fingers through her hair, thick and dark on top, shaved on the sides. As always, she’s wearing a golf shirt with the school logo and warm-up sweats. Her eyes, rimmed dark, moisten as she spots me.



* * *





I remember it like yesterday, though it was four years ago. It was just after 4 p.m., my feet up on my desk, reviewing Lit papers, when I heard a knock at the door of my classroom.

I glanced over and saw a woman roughly my age dressed in a tracksuit. She was tall and fit with an athletic posture. I was reasonably sure she could kick my ass if it came to it, but I was hoping that a classroom on the second floor of Grace Consolidated High School made for an unlikely locale for an assault.

Coach Rankin? she asked. Denise Schwartz. I’m the AD over at Mortimer College.

Oh. Right. You left me a message. I removed my legs from my desk.

I left you four, she said. But I assume your phone is buzzing like crazy with job offers. A third state title in five years?

I put down my papers. I’m happy where I am.

I’m betting you’re not, she said. I remember you. I remember what happened to you. The fourteen-year-old pitcher with the golden arm? Then the car accident that scuttled your future. Drunk driver, right?

That was blunt. Then again, I preferred blunt over diplomatic any day. Yes, it was a drunk driver, I said. If you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re not doing a very good job.

She smirked. You’re a turnaround artist, she said. You always have been, every place you’ve coached. You take a crap team and build them into a champion, then you move on to the next dumpster fire and build them into a winner, too. And, boy, do I have a dumpster fire for you.



* * *





Denise draws me into a hug. “How ya doin’, Skip?” she whispers, using my nickname out of respect. The boys say I’m old-school, thus my nickname, short for skipper, what they used to call baseball managers back when I was in diapers.

“How bad?” I ask her.

“Not…not good.” Emotion clogs her throat. “You need to fight this,” she forces out. “Take these fuckers to court. Get your fancy lawyer sister to shove this up their asses.”