Rough Trade

fitting Jeff for the noose.
    Jeff had signed his own death warrant when he’d angrily told Feiss that all the obligations that his father had made were canceled. He was a dead man just as soon as he’d announced he was moving the team.
    Bennato was in a position to set the fire that brought Jack back to Milwaukee. He’d probably been whispering his suspicions about Jack and Chrissy in Jeff’s ear from the minute he killed Jeff’s father. It has been said that football was nothing if not a violent game of chess. Bennato had spent his entire career planning strategy and coolly moving men across the playing field. A master of a violent game, he’d been playing Jeff, Chrissy, and the police from the first move.
    As I pulled into the driveway I felt the first wave of misgiving when I realized that there was no security guard on the street. I told myself that he might be making a tour of the property or taking a bathroom break. Otherwise, everything looked exactly as I’d left it that morning, a peaceful house on a quiet suburban street.
    I parked the Jaguar behind the Volvo in front of the house and walked around to the side door under the porte cochere because I knew that’s where Chrissy kept the key hidden. I lifted the mat, unlocked the door and returned the key to its place, and let myself in. The house not only seemed quiet but felt empty. I felt a shiver of dread and told myself that I was imagining things.
    I went off in search of Chrissy. Finding the first floor deserted, I made my way upstairs, expecting to find her still asleep. Her bedroom door was ajar, but when I stuck my head in, I found it empty. The bed was still unmade and there were clothes on the floor. I noticed that the light was on in her bathroom and the door was open.
    “Chrissy?” I called out. “I’m back.” There was no answer.
    I looked inside the bathroom. The floor was wet and the air was still humid from the shower. Makeup was spread out all over the counter, scattered not just next to the sink but in it. Several compacts had apparently been knocked on the floor, and I noticed that the rug was askew. But what really made my mouth go dry was the Milwaukee Monarchs’ envelope that lay open on the counter. I quickly took a look inside. Where it had once contained dozens of pills it was now empty.
    I ran through the house, calling her name, desperate to find her. Terrified, I told myself to get a grip. I was not just letting my imagination run away from me, but hypothesizing ahead of the facts. I hadn’t even looked to see whether the car was still in the garage. For all I knew, she’d poured the pills down the sink and run out to get a cup of coffee while I was charging around getting ready to dial the suicide hot line.
    I walked through the kitchen and opened the door that led from the house into the garage. I immediately knew that there was something wrong. The overhead garage door was closed, but the engine of Jeff’s Lexus was running and the air was thick with exhaust. I fumbled in the dark for the switch to open the garage door, feeling the door to the house snap closed behind me as I worked my way along the wall, groping for the switch. I found it and immediately heard the garage door spring to life and begin to lift.
    However, it had not risen more than six inches before it changed directions and closed again.
    Panicked and beginning to cough, I hit the button again. The same thing happened, only this time the door opened only a fraction of an inch before reversing itself and moving down. Frantic, I groped for the doorknob to go back into the house, but was horrified to discover that it would not turn.
    “Think,” I told myself.
    That’s when I remembered that all automatic garage door openers were required to have a manual override. The one on my parents’ garage door looked like a small red handle on a rope that hung from the chain that controlled the door. Gasping and dizzy, I plunged into the garage, half climbed up the hood of the Lexus, and flailed in the general direction of the ceiling until my hand hit something that felt like string. I pulled as hard as I could and felt the mechanism release.
    Then I slid down the passenger side of the Lexus and raced toward the entrance to the garage, scrabbling in the dark for the handle that I knew must be centered near the ground. I found it and I heaved, raising the door and letting in a tide of cold, clean air.
    Bent over and coughing uncontrollably, I forced myself