Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

in line. When we were away from the table, he explained how a friend roped him into helping with Little League. I glanced over my shoulder and overheard the boy tell his sister that Coach Dave was the “coolest one.” It seemed high praise for a man accused of being a racist.
    I couldn’t concentrate on the overhead menu. Choices of breads and toppings were ridiculous compared to other matters struggling for attention in my mind. How had David gotten tied up with Trish? What was the deal with her drug-abusing brother? Was the brother the man I remembered from the day I found Mattie?
    The wall clock near the cash register caught my eye. It was almost one o’clock. Most folks would leave the drop zone by seven or eight.
    David reached into his jacket pocket for the list of orders. When he opened his hand I saw the wadded list and a tube of lip-gloss in his palm.
    “Trish’s.” He shoved the lip-gloss back in the pocket. “She wears this jacket more than I do.”
    It was a simple brown bomber jacket; the leather had aged beautifully.
    “I can see why.”
    “Gotta watch her though,” he added, and pointed to a light spot on one elbow. “She set her arm in grease at the airport. The dry cleaning bill to get that out was huge.”
    I watched the girl behind the counter spoon meatballs onto a twelve-inch sub.
    “Then last week she borrowed it,” he continued, “and lost fifty bucks in jump tickets I’d stuffed in the pocket.”

Chapter Twenty
    I shoved a Subway sack into Jeannie’s hand and motioned to an empty corner of the hangar. She followed me and we sat on worn carpet remnants spread over the cool concrete slab. I told her about David’s missing jump tickets.
    Her eyes widened. She didn’t seem to notice she was squeezing her sandwich.
    I extracted my own from its clear plastic bag and began to unwrap it. A breeze blew through the open doors and I tucked our napkins under my leg to stop them from blowing away.
    “What’d Trish do with that kid?” I asked.
    Jeannie looked over her shoulder to be sure no one was near. “That creepy guy, the one who caught you snooping…do you think he’s in on it?”
    I removed my wrapper and shoved it under my leg with the napkins.
    “Craig Clement. I bet she got him this job. Look at the timeline. He gets hired, and two months later Casey’s missing. I’m sure they could have planned it in two months.”
    Jeannie nodded. “I could plan a kidnapping in two months. Easy.”
    I looked at her. She probably thought she could train for a marathon in two months.
    “Then there’s David,” I said, “Trish moved in with him three months ago, you know.”
    She raised her eyebrows. “No. I did not know. Add that jewel to the timeline.” Jeannie pulled her sub from its bag and started unwrapping its paper.
    The wind was blowing annoying wisps of hair around my face. I sighed and readjusted the elastic band that was supposed to be holding it back. “I hear you. But I don’t think David’s part of it. He wouldn’t incriminate himself by mentioning those lost tickets.”
    I took a bite of my sandwich but was too distracted to taste it.
    Jeannie made a quick inspection of the inside of her sub. “Maybe they don’t know the police found a ticket.”
    I stopped chewing.
    She continued, “David would think nothing of mentioning it then.”
    I imagined myself in his position.
    “No,” I said. “Trish would worry about where she lost those tickets. If he were in it with her, she’d warn him they could be at Casey’s house. Then he’d never mention it.”
    Jeannie shrugged, apparently unconvinced.
    “He works with at-risk kids, for crying out loud,” I added. “And coaches Little League. Kids love him.”
    “Women liked Ted Bundy.” She bit into her chicken and bacon sandwich.
    We ate in silence for a while, thinking.
    “What’d she do with Casey?” I asked again, so frustrated I nearly raised my voice.
    Jeannie pulled a napkin from the stash under my knee and wiped her mouth. “Sold him, I think. Like that Shelton boy back home.”
    It was becoming difficult to separate the two cases. The couple in Austin I’d seen in the restaurant with Mattie was about to pay thirty grand to “adopt” him when I intervened. They couldn’t be located at trial time. Without them or me, the case against Mattie’s kidnapper disintegrated. Of course, I hadn’t known that back then. In hindsight, the entire situation reeked of foul play. An uneasy feeling washed