Keep Them Close(33)

“Luke, please—”

“No. We already made our deal. Alan’s the coach this season.”

“Meaning forever. Your contract runs out this year. Crisham won’t rehire you.”

“I’ll worry about that later.”

I drop my head in my hand. “I don’t get you. What happened to my brother, the ultimate competitor? You get arrested and the first thing you tell me is you want to plead guilty. Now the school boots you on your ass and rather than stand up for yourself, you lie down and take it?”

Luke begs off the call, saying he needs to get some air, go for a run, clear his head. I can’t believe he won’t let me help him. I don’t understand this.

I pick up my phone and call Harp. “Are you still in the building?”

“Yeah, I’m with Vivian. Want me to come back?”

Two minutes later, she returns to my office. “What’s up?”

“I have an assignment for you,” I say. “Trinity Casto. Good, bad, ugly.”

“We’re pretty strapped on Childress,” she says. “My whole team’s on it.”

Right. “Could you fit it in around the Childress stuff?”

She nods. “Sure. For Luke’s case? Client work, not personal?”

“Client work, yes, privileged and confidential,” I say. “Something’s going on here. Luke isn’t being himself. He’s like a puppet. And I’ll bet anything that Trinity’s pulling the strings.”





After April Fools’ Day





25


Louise

—Investigation, Day 4—

The Grace Park Municipal Police Station is a two-story brick building tucked off Miriam Street, squat and unremarkable from the outside, running with the low, steady current of a department that knows its town: mostly small crimes, tight budgets, always slightly off guard when something bigger lands on its doorstep.

The front lobby smells like lemon floor wax and Lysol. Josie, the civilian receptionist with a tidy bun and caustic sense of humor, has the front desk for the evening shift. The walls are lined with faded photos of retired officers, a community bulletin board, a clock that nobody trusts in the age of smartphones.

“How we doin’, Lou?” Josie asks Louise, sipping from a thermos with cat stickers.

“Happy as a puppy with two peters,” she says.

Past the central hallway, past the patrol sergeants’ bullpen and a door labeled Evidence—Authorized Use Only, sits the detectives’ bureau, a room with eight desks, four shared file cabinets, a scuffed whiteboard covered in case numbers and initials. The walls are institutional beige. The tile floor is only cracked in about ten different places. The fluorescent lights flicker; the radiators hiss. The space reeks of burnt coffee.

Louise drops her bag by her desk, the second from the end with a view of the parking lot and the steeple of a Presbyterian church. Her desk is chaotic to the naked eye but organized to her, everything where it should be. Paper files are stacked beneath a worn leather-bound notebook. A World’s Best Grandma mug, faded from years of use, rests beside a coaster she never uses. Taped to the computer monitor are two sticky notes: one with a password scratched out and replaced three times, the other with the reminder Listen longer than they expect.

Lining the back are photos. A framed black-and-white of her academy graduation, back when her badge still gleamed and her hair was strawberry blond. And three separate frames for her three children and their families, seven grandkids in total.

Cutty sits at his desk across from Louise. “I remember Luke Rankin,” he says. “From growing up. He must be forty-two now. Younger than me, but just a year younger than my brother. They played youth baseball together.”

“He was really good?” she asks. “Before that accident.”

“Oh, yeah, it was crazy. Nobody could hit him. It became so ridiculous, he had to stop playing little league and just played travel ball. He played kids two, three years older than him, and they couldn’t hit him, either. That accident was real news around here.”

“Well.” Louise checks her phone for the time. “He should be here any minute now.”



* * *





“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Rankin. Wish it were under better circumstances.”

They are inside Interview Room A at the station. The room is as plain as a coffin: gray-painted cinder-block walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, chairs facing each other. A single light buzzes faintly overhead, leaving a pale glare. In the corner, a wall-mounted camera watches with its unblinking red eye. A slim stack of files rests on the table.

Dressed in a long-sleeved purple shirt, the words Mortimer Baseball in small print at the breast, Luke Rankin sits in the plastic chair across from them. Handsome, athletic, looking much younger than his forty-two years with a strong jaw and full head of thick, curly dark hair.

Interesting that he’s not represented by counsel. Louise certainly isn’t going to remind him of that option. “Would you consent to us searching your phone?” she asks.

“Um, sure. But…how long will you keep it?”

“Won’t take our tech long to download the contents. She’ll be in at eight in the morning.”

“Fine.” He slides his phone across the table. “I’ll pick it up around ten?”