by Jeff Shelby
The only way around the tough enrollment boundaries for the high school was to buy in. The few homes that came up on the market were usually older, unexciting homes. Most people with the money to afford them wouldn't consider actually living in them, and the lots were too small to rebuild. So they would buy the home to get the Coronado address and send their child to the island schools but continue living elsewhere. The school district frowned upon it and did their best to ensure that it didn’t happen often.
But sometimes it did and it was clear to me that the Jordan family had bought their way in to the high school.
I plugged the Jordan’s Rancho Santa Fe address into my rental car’s GPS and headed over the bridge to the mainland. Headed north on I-5, through downtown, past the airport, Sea World and the backside of La Jolla. The area had continued to grow rapidly during my absence, clusters of homes built into nearly every valley and canyon along the coast, like Monopoly pieces on an already crowded board.
When I hit Del Mar, I exited the freeway at Via De La Valle and turned east. The GPS led me well back into the rolling canyons of Rancho Santa Fe, the mansions going from small to large to humongous the further east you went. The Jordan address was about as east as you could go, an indicator that whoever Meredith Jordan was, her family could afford a vacant home on Coronado. A few twists and turns into the canyon and I’d located the Jordan home.
Actually, I’d located their front gates. I couldn’t see the house from where I stood. There was a small intercom just to the left of the drive and in front of the ornate iron gates. I got out of the rental and pushed the call button. After a pause, it crackled to life and a smooth female voice asked “Yes, sir?”
I glanced up and saw two small security cameras mounted on top of the gates rotate in my direction. “My name’s Joe Tyler. I’d like to speak to Mr. Jordan.”
“Mr. Jordan doesn’t receive business calls at his home, sir.”
“I’m working on his daughter’s assault case.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Please wait there, Mr. Tyler.”
I nodded at the cameras and stepped back to the car. I stood on the tips of my toes and tried to get a glimpse of anything over the small, grassy hill behind the gates but failed.
Five minutes later, headlights flashed in the darkness and a white BMW 750 pulled up on the other side of the gates. I squinted into the bright halogen lamps. A tall blond woman stepped out from the driver’s side, pointed a remote at the gates and the huge iron fixtures began to slide to the sides.
She was around thirty, her hair cut short, almost to the point of looking like a boy’s. She wore black cotton sweat pants that flared at her ankles, the kind that usually had some word printed across the rear end. A matching jacket was zipped up to her neck. The stripes on her running shoes glowed in the dark as she crossed through the gate opening.
She held out her hand. “Gina Coleman. I work for Mr. Jordan.”
I took her hand and before I could say anything, she jerked me toward her, swept my legs out from under me with one of hers and dropped me to the ground on my back. The air whooshed out of my lungs and bright colors flashed in my eyes. She dropped down, spearing my chest with her knee, and dug a thumbnail deep into the skin just below my right eye.
“You move and I’ll bury my thumb directly into your eyeball,” she said, her other hand expertly sweeping my body.
I held still, more irritated than afraid.
She finished the sweep and refocused her eyes on mine. Up close, I could see that her hair was a natural yellow-blond, her skin golden-tan, her eyes the color of fresh-cut green grass. Very attractive if she hadn’t been threatening to blind me.
She increased the pressure just a fraction below my eye, blurring my sight. “Why are you out here?”
I was bigger than she was and I thought I could toss her weight off of me, but that thumb was too close to my eye and I appreciated the ability to see. “I told you. I’m working on his daughter’s case.”
“And you just show up here at night, unannounced?” She kept her voice low, relaxed, like she was perusing the items on a menu.
“I just got into town,” I said, moving my eyes to her thumb. Her nail was painted purple. “A friend of mine was arrested and I’m trying to help him.”
The pressure beneath my eye let up a fraction. “Your friend is Winslow?”
“Yeah.”
She blinked several times. “He tell you to come out here?”
“No. He can’t talk. He’s unconscious in the hospital. But where else would I start?”
Something flashed through her eyes. “The hospital?”
“With his head cracked open.”
The pressure let up again. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
She removed her nail from my face and stood. She offered her hand to help me up. I ignored her and got myself up.
“He’s really hurt?”
I brushed off my jeans. “They found him on the beach. He’s in pretty bad shape.”
She started to say something, then stopped. She rubbed at her chin, her mouth drawn tight with concern. She glanced at me and the conflict in her expression was gone.
“You’ve got some guts showing up here and representing the other side,” she said.
“And you’ve got one helluva way of greeting visitors,” I said, rubbing the throbbing area beneath my eye. I could feel the tiny, crescent-shaped impression her nail had made in my skin.
“It’s my job,” she said.
“To threaten people who say hello on the intercom? I didn’t force my way in. You came down to meet me.”
“I’m Mr. Jordan’s security director. We aren’t comfortable with people making their way out to his property, particularly when we’re unprepared for their arrival.”
“Well, I’m trying to do my job, too,” I said. “I’m an investigator.”
She looked over my shoulder at the car. “You got a gun in the car?”
There was no reason to lie. “Yes. In the trunk, in a backpack.”
She nodded. “Okay. Just wanted to see if you’d be up front about it.” She studied me for a moment. “He won’t talk to you.”
“I’ll hang around until he does.”
“Then I’ll be forced to hurt you again.”
“But this time, I’ll know its coming.”
She smiled. “Won’t make any difference, honey. And I’ve got backup.”
She was confident. She wasn’t used to losing. And it worked in her favor.
“Look, I don’t want to fight with you,” I said, not wanting to tangle with her again at that moment. “Chuck Winslow is a friend and I’m trying to help him. The complaint lists Mr. Jordan’s daughter as the one who filed the complaint. I understand why he might not want me to speak to her. She’s a minor. I get that. But, at the very least, I’m going to need to speak with him.”
She studied me, her eyes intense, brighter than the headlights on the BMW. “You used to live here, right? In San Diego? You were a cop?”
My gut jumped. “Yeah.”
“You’re the one he talked about.”
“Who?”
“Chuck.”
“You know him?”
She folded her arms across her chest and something changed in her eyes. Sympathy mixed with curiosity. I knew immediately that she knew Chuck and that she knew about me.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Jordan and see if he’ll agree to speak to you,” she said. “But don’t count on it.”
“Alright.”
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
She wasn’t going to tell me how she knew Chuck. I let it go for the time being, pulled a card out of my pocket and handed it to her. “You can reach me at that number.”
She took the card and studied it for a moment before fixing her gaze on me. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She slipped into the BMW, the gates slid to a close and she whipped a U-turn, disappearing into the darkness.
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br /> FIVE
I retraced my original route into Rancho Santa Fe and returned to the highway. Gina Coleman had asked where I was staying. I wouldn’t have told her even if I had known, but the truth was I hadn’t found a place to stay yet. I’d gone straight from the airport to the hospital to both of the Jordan homes.
I drove south out of Del Mar and back toward downtown. Staying on the island was expensive and something I didn’t want to do, regardless of money. It had been hard enough to drive over the bridge the first time, returning to a town that did nothing but bring my stomach to boil. But Chuck was there, Meredith Jordan went to high school there and I figured that at least being close would save me some time. I didn’t have to stay on Coronado, but I knew I’d be spending time there.
I settled for one of the hotels across the bay from the island and checked into a room on the fifteenth floor. I threw my backpack in the closet and sat down on the edge of the bed. Twelve hours prior, I’d been napping in a small apartment in Biloxi, Mississippi, two blocks from the Gulf of Mexico. I’d been in Biloxi for almost three months, enjoying the quiet and isolation and the walks along the shores of the Gulf. No one had come calling for my help recently and I was happy not to give it.
But Biloxi started to close in around me, as I found all places eventually did. Too much time by myself, with nothing to focus on other than the past. When my cell phone chirped and woke me from the nap, I was grateful for the interruption in what had become my life.
Lauren’s voice had startled me. I hadn’t spoken to her in close to a year and for a moment, for an excruciatingly long moment, I thought that this was the phone call that I’d been hoping for for nearly seven years. Maybe we had an answer and after I said hello, I realized I was holding my breath. Lauren probably knew that and very quickly explained why she was calling. I was ripped hard back into reality.
The thought of returning to San Diego created a dull ache in my gut. There were so many reasons not to go back and yet as soon as she told me about Chuck, I said yes, told her that I was on my way. I had cut everyone out of my life and I knew he was the one person that hadn’t held it against me. He understood. He’d stood by me in more ways than any friend should ever be asked to and I owed him.
Things change quickly.
I walked over to the window. A ferry boat was crossing the bay to the island and lights freckled the bridge over to the place I’d called home for thirty-plus years.
I wasn’t comfortable being back. My plan was to never come back because I didn’t think that anything good would come of it. It wouldn’t repair my marriage or my reputation, and it wouldn't bring my daughter back. The only thing I could count on was seeing the past rush at me head-on. I stared out that hotel window and I could feel all of it bearing down on me, with no clue how to stop it.
SIX
Not ready for sleep, I went down to the main floor of the hotel and walked outside toward Seaport Village, a collection of shops and restaurants strung along the north end of the bay where PCH met Harbor Drive. I bought fish and chips from a walk-up window and found a small table near a fountain, trying to straighten out Chuck and the high school and Meredith Jordan in my head as I ate.
The complaint stated that Chuck knew Meredith through their contact at the high school. Maybe Chuck had some sort of mid-life crisis and decided to become a teacher. I doubted it, but anything was possible. Gina Coleman definitely knew Chuck, but I didn’t know if that was through Meredith or another avenue. Coleman was the first link of any kind I’d found and I’d go back to her soon if I had no luck elsewhere.
A couple sat down at the table next to mine with their daughter. She looked to be about seven or eight. She was small for her age and struggled awkwardly to get into her chair. The family had purchased fish and chips as well and the little girl was soaking the fries in ketchup, then jamming them into her mouth. She turned to me with stained lips and grinned.
My stomach jolted and I stood, gathering up my trash without returning the little girl’s smile.
I walked through the village to Buster’s, a beach-themed bar and grill with old longboards on the walls. I didn’t want to go sit in my quiet hotel room. I found a corner stool at the far end of the bar with a window that looked out over the boardwalk toward Marina Park. I bummed a piece of paper and pen from the bartender and started making notes on what little I knew about Chuck and Meredith. I was on my second diet soda when the guy two stools down from me motioned in my direction.
“You've got an admirer,” he said.
The guy was bigger and younger than me and looked like hell. Unshaven, black circles around his eyes. A tan that was fading.
“Excuse me?”
He motioned to the window. “Hang on. He's coming around again. He's watching you.”
Ten seconds later, I saw who he meant. A guy about six feet tall in jeans and a blue button-down walked past the window closest to me. He was subtle outside the restaurant, not really looking my way, not really doing anything. But there was a quick glance in my direction.
“That's the third time he's been by,” the guy at the bar said. “He's circling. And he's looking at you.”
“Maybe he's looking at you.”
The guy finished his beer and stood. “If he was looking at me, I'd have already broken his arm.” He kept his eyes on me as he stuck his hand in the pocket of his shorts. “He's looking at you.” He pulled out a handful of bills and laid them on the bar. “But, whatever.”
The bartender came over and shoved the bills back in the guy's direction. “On me, Noah.” The bartender placed his hands on the bar. “I heard what happened. I'm sorry, man. Liz was…”
The guy shoved the bills back toward the bartender and pointed at me. “Buy his drinks then.” The guy hesitated. “And if I don't see you for awhile, take it easy.”
The guy glanced at me, the circles around his eyes darker now, then left.
I should've thanked him, but now I was focused on who might be watching me.
I waved at the bartender and kept an eye on the window, waiting for the fourth pass. The bartender hustled over.
“You're good, man,” he said. “He got you.”
I pulled my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans anyway and unfolded it, looking for a couple of bills to tip the guy. Several quarters fell out of the fold and tumbled to the floor.
“Dammit,” I muttered, laying my wallet on the bar and bending over to pick up the quarters.
“Cute kid,” the bartender said to me when I was upright again.
“Excuse me?”
He pointed to my wallet. “She’s cute.”
The wallet had opened flat on the bar top and the picture of the young girl in the tattered plastic sleeve was staring back at me. Plain gray background, her small oval faced framed with long yellow-blonde hair. Her smile was awkward and missing two teeth, her head tilted fractionally to her left. It was taken the second week of second grade when life was still fair.
I fished quickly for cash from the back fold of the wallet, fighting a surge of nausea in my gut.
“How old is she?” he asked, leaning in to get a better look. “Seven or so?”
I found a ten-dollar bill, tossed it on the bar, folded up the wallet and shoved it in my pocket.
“Sixteen,” I said as I walked away, my steps heavy and forced. “She’d be sixteen.”
SEVEN
I was wrong. It wasn’t a guy that was keeping an eye on me.
It was a kid.
I stood in the lobby of Buster’s, fishing for a peppermint out of a small tin bowl, waiting for my friend to pass by. A minute later, he walked quickly past the front of the restaurant, not even glancing at the doors I was standing behind, probably assuming I was still at the bar. I stepped out through the doors and followed him.
He turned at the far corner of the restaurant and it was clear to me he had no idea what he was doing. He'd made nothing but circles around the restaurant. When he turned the corner, I caught a
better glimpse of his face. A bit of stubble dotted his chin, but his cheeks were a little red and there were no lines around the eyes. No way he was more than eighteen.
He came around to the boardwalk-side of the restaurant and I stayed a good distance behind him, tucked in behind an older couple wearing matching Hawaiian shirts. When the kid got to the window at the bar, he glanced over, did a double take, then slowed, realizing I’d moved from my spot inside at the bar.
I slipped out from behind the couple to the wall that ran on the other side of the walk and half-turned, like I was looking at the birds feeding down by the water. I was parallel to him and he was still in my peripheral vision.
He stepped closer to the window, clearly wondering where the hell I’d gone. I moved forward, staying out of his line of vision. He hesitated for a moment, then broke into a pace just short of a jog as he circled the restaurant one more time. I followed.
He came around to the window at the bar again and pulled out a cell phone. I stayed further behind him this time, out at the boardwalk railing, sidling up next to a group of teenage boys who were comparing skateboards.
My friend spun slowly in a circle, talking rapidly on the cell, gesturing, frustrated.
I thought about just walking up to him, surprising him and seeing what his response was. But if I did that, I wouldn’t get any idea of who he was talking to or why he was following me. Patience wasn’t my strongest character quality, but I summoned what little I did have to see if I could learn a bit more.
He folded up the phone and headed west toward the Harbor House and the park that jutted out into the bay, dodging couples and tourists on the crowded boardwalk. I kept my distance, moving behind him. He wasn’t looking around any longer, just seemed to be aiming for a new location.
The road into and out from the park was clogged with traffic and I was afraid I’d lose him, as he could’ve easily jumped into a car and sped off. I picked up the pace and was only about fifty feet behind him as he crossed the busy road and walked over to the west side of the village.
