by Jeff Shelby
“About a month, month-and-a-half,” he said. “I watched him in the gym with the team. He was pretty good. He knew how to explain things. Footwork, body position, nuances that can be tough to teach kids. He could do it. During games, he stayed in his seat and kept his mouth shut, working with the girls. He was a model assistant coach.”
“Who’s the head coach?” I asked.
“Kelly Rundles,” he said. “She’s been here three years. She was my first hire. She’s very good.”
“She and Chuck got along alright?”
“Yes. Kelly’s not the type to let anyone step in front of her. She runs the ship. But her ego is manageable enough that if she finds someone who can help, she lets them do their thing. That’s what she did with Winslow.”
“And Meredith Jordan was on the varsity team?” I asked.
“Said we weren’t going to talk about Ms. Jordan,” he said.
“Pretty sure I can look it up online when we’re done,” I said.
He smiled. “Look up whatever you like. I’m not talking about Ms. Jordan.”
The whole scenario was like science fiction. Chuck, in a school, working with teenagers, acting as a role model. Doing something worthwhile. Stricker hadn’t touched on one thing I wanted to know, though.
“Did Chuck just show up here at the school?” I asked. “Looking to volunteer?”
He shifted in his seat, his movements stiffer, more uncomfortable. “No. He was recommended.”
“By who?”
Stricker leveled his gaze at me. “Ms. Jordan’s father.”
ELEVEN
“Jon Jordan recommended Chuck?” I asked, making sure I understood correctly.
Stricker nodded. “Yep. Called me up, said he was sending over a guy who was interested in coaching.”
“You know Jordan well enough to take his word on something like that?”
He shifted again and folded his hands together. “I barely know the man. But he does a lot of things for the school.”
“Things?”
“He financed most of what we did in there,” he said, pointing over my shoulder at the gym. “Other stuff around campus, too.
“And you can’t say no to a guy with pockets like that?”
Stricker shrugged. “I would have if Winslow didn’t feel right to me. But like I said, I watched the guy interact with the kids and the team. I was comfortable having him here.”
“So you saw him interact with Meredith Jordan?”
“I saw him interact with all of the girls.”
I stayed quiet.
“But, yes, I saw him with Meredith,” he said, his words careful now, cautious. “They spent some time together. Just the two of them.”
That was not what I was hoping to hear.
“After practice, sometimes before school,” Stricker said. “Two of them in there, working on things. They seemed…close.”
“Close,” I repeated.
Stricker stared past me at the gym before refocusing on me. “We were getting to the point where I was going to sit him down and have a conversation with him. It was getting pretty frequent and it’s my job to be aware of things like that.”
“But you didn’t ask him about it?”
“Didn’t get the chance,” Stricker said. “Day I was gonna catch him before practice was the day he was arrested.” He paused. “And that is all I am going to say about Ms. Jordan.”
Without saying as much, Stricker was telling me that he suspected something was going on. That bothered me a great deal because in the short time I’d been speaking to him, Robert Stricker didn’t strike me as a guy who had any sort of agenda other than watching over his athletic program. Even if nothing inappropriate was going on between Meredith and Chuck, the fact that someone else noticed that they were spending time together was not a good thing.
“Did Jordan say how he knew Chuck?” I asked.
Stricker started to say something, then stopped and let his eyes wander over my shoulder again. I turned around to see what he was looking at.
Two men, dressed casually in button-down shirts and khaki pants, were heading toward the office.
“Your ride’s here,” Stricker said.
I turned back to him. “My ride?”
“You better hope it’s just a ride,” Stricker said, standing up. “Just be straight with him, tell him what you’re doing. He’s an intimidating guy, but honesty goes a long way with him.”
“Him meaning Jordan?” I asked.
Stricker nodded.
“Thought you said you didn’t know him that well.”
“I know him enough,” Stricker said.
“Enough to call him before you came down the hall to meet me?” I asked.
He didn’t respond, just let his expression frost over. I should’ve known it was too easy to get in to see him.
“I’ll bet it’s a long way from calling signals on an NFL defense to taking orders from a rich guy,” I said.
Anger melted the icy expression, but he stayed quiet.
There was a knock on the office door and Stricker told them to come in. Both were younger than me, late twenties, good shape. Both nice-looking, smiled like they meant it.
The one on the right held up a hand at Stricker. “Hey, Mr. Stricker. Nice to see you.”
Stricker didn’t smile. “Yeah.”
The guy looked at me. “Mr. Tyler. My name is James Hanley. This is Trevor Boyle. We work for Jon Jordan.”
Trevor nodded politely at me. They reminded me of those Mormon kids you see bicycling down the streets in your neighborhood. All friendly and wanting to help out in any way they could.
“Mr. Jordan was sorry not to have met with you last night. He’s wondering if you’d join him for an early lunch,” James said. “We’d be happy to escort you to meet him.”
The request was pleasant. Nothing sinister behind it. But it didn’t leave much room for rejection. And I’d shown up at his house the previous night to talk to him anyway. No use wasting any more time.
I looked at Stricker. “Thanks for your time.”
Stricker nodded, but watched Hanley and Boyle. “You’re welcome. Good luck.”
TWELVE
It was not an ominous car ride out of a movie scene. They suggested I follow them in my rental. No threats, no warnings. Hanley just gave me directions and said they’d go slowly so I could follow.
Polite coercion, I suppose.
We took the bridge off the island and up the 163 north, cutting through the steep canyons that housed Balboa Park and the zoo. After snaking through the heavy traffic in Mission Valley, we took the 805 into Sorrento Valley, angling back toward the coast. I followed them off the freeway into the parking lot of one of the hundreds of identical looking office parks in San Diego’s own miniature Silicon Valley.
I got out of the car and approached Hanley and Boyle. “Where are we?”
Hanley smiled, happy to be of service. “These are the offices of Jordan Enterprises.”
“Which is?”
“Real estate development, mainly,” Hanley said. “Mr. Jordan develops corporate properties like hotels and office buildings.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “All that new construction around the ballpark? When we were coming off the island? He’s involved with a lot of that.”
The city had finally gotten off its rear end and realized that the downtown area could drive tourism rather than repel it. They’d slowly developed the area around the harbor with a convention center, hotels and a baseball stadium. Everything else followed quickly and the renaissance that was going on in downtown San Diego was turning into a model for other large cities around the country.
And if Jordan had his hands in that, he was beyond wealthy. Which was why the understated office building confused me. A guy with that kind of money usually liked to show it off. But the building we were at was no different than the others in the area. It could’ve been anything.
“Mr. Jordan likes to keep things simple,” Hanley sai
d, reading my expression. Boyle started toward the building and Hanley gestured in his direction. “Shall we?”
As we walked into the building, I couldn’t help but think I was missing something. Hanley and Boyle were as non-threatening as they could be, yet they did track me down at the high school and they had obviously been given directions to bring me back. I made a mental note to not let the friendly demeanor push down my guard.
The interior of the building was no more exciting than that of any office. Framed photos, fake plants, industrial carpeting. Jordan certainly wasn’t spending his fortune on these digs.
We took the elevator to the fourth floor. Boyle and Hanley waved at a receptionist who barely looked up from her cubicle greeting area. Boyle knocked on a door at the end of the hall and a voice beckoned us in. Boyle stepped aside and waved me past.
I recognized Jonathon Jordan as soon as I saw him. From what, I couldn’t recall, but I knew I’d seen him in a magazine or a newspaper or something. He was standing behind his desk. He was average height, maybe 5’10”, not spectacular looking, but not ugly, either. Dark brown hair, five o’clock shadow over tan skin, brown eyes, a crooked nose and a wide mouth. His shoulders were wide for a guy his size and he looked athletic. He was wearing an aquamarine long-sleeve button down and expensive looking blue jeans.
He stared me down for a long moment before looking past me. “Thanks, guys. We’re good.”
I turned to see Hanley and Boyle exiting, closing the door behind them.
Jordan sat, then folded his hands into a tight knot and laid them on his desk. “Most people who show up at my home unannounced leave in an ambulance.”
There were two chairs in front of the desk, but he made no motion for me to take one. Probably thought I’d be more uncomfortable standing.
“Guess I’m lucky then.”
“You’re lucky I let Gina handle things the way she does.” His folded hands tightened. “If I’d come out to meet you, there wouldn’t have been enough left of you for the medical folks to haul away.”
I was accustomed to people making threats. Most did so because they felt compelled. They wanted to appear strong, brave, defiant. But most didn’t come across as being able to back it up.
Jordan wasn’t a big guy and he wasn’t posturing. Something in his voice, though, convinced me he meant what he was saying and I wasn’t going to get anywhere by being antagonistic.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” I said. “And I apologize for any inconvenience.”
He pushed back from the desk and crossed his legs, eyeing me from the side. “And do you apologize for the beating your friend handed out to my daughter?”
“My friend didn’t hurt your daughter,” I said.
Anger radiated from his face. “She says differently.”
“I know that. I’m trying to figure out why.”
The corner of his mouth curled up. “So now my daughter’s lying.” It wasn’t a question. Just a statement meant to make me realize I’d insulted his daughter.
“I don’t know your daughter,” I said. “But I know my friend. He wouldn’t hurt a teenage girl. Ever.”
Jordan shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, then let out a snort like I was the court jester that had failed to entertain him. Then something else moved through his expression, something darker.
“You know your friend?”
“I do.”
He stared intently at me across his desk. “I’d think it would be tough to know someone you haven’t seen in a very long time.” He paused and squinted. “Tough to still know the people in your life when you run away from them.”
A shiver prickled the back of my neck.
“Disgraced cop, missing daughter, divorced,” Jordan continued. “That’s a lot of shit. Maybe I would’ve taken off, too.”
The shiver turned to icicles but I managed to hold his gaze. I hated myself for not being able to find the words to fight back.
“Must be hell for you,” Jordan said, watching me. “Having to live with it.”
The muscles in my throat constricted and the floor beneath me felt unsteady.
“Not knowing,” Jordan said. “It must be hell.”
My hands curled into fists. He was playing a game with me, trying to establish an upper hand. Blowing up or going across the desk to rip his head off wouldn’t have done Chuck or me any good. But I was done trying to be polite. I took a deep breath, exhaled and unclenched my fists.
“What did it cost you?” I asked.
“What did what cost me?”
“Getting someone to kick the shit out of Chuck,” I said. “You just keep someone on retainer or was this a new venture?”
Nothing in his expression changed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure. Just more bad luck for Chuck, I guess.”
“I guess.”
We stared at each other for a moment.
“He didn’t hurt your daughter,” I said.
“Have you seen the case file?”
“Yeah.”
“You think my daughter just fell down? Tripped? Banged her entire face on a wall?” A cold smile forced its way onto his mouth. “Maybe that’s what happened to Mr. Winslow. Maybe he tripped.”
It was as much of an admission as I would get from him. But it was enough.
“No,” I said. “It’s clear something happened to your daughter. But Chuck Winslow isn’t responsible.”
He looked away, an incredulous expression on his face, like he was explaining simple addition to an adult.
“So, what?” he asked. “You just want to talk to Meredith? Find out the real story?”
“I would like to speak to her, yes.”
He shook his head slowly and pushed himself out of his chair, like it was the toughest physical task he’d ever performed.
“I don’t really give a shit who you think you are or how well you think you know your friend,” Jon Jordan said. “But I saw my daughter come home beaten up, barely able to walk, barely able to speak. And the first words out of her mouth were that your friend-someone she thought was her friend, too-had kicked the shit out of her.” He paused. “My daughter’s not a liar. So you can stand there all you want and defend him. I couldn’t care less. But if you think I’m going to let you talk to my daughter…”
I was getting nowhere in a hurry. I needed to move away from the subject of his daughter.
“Robert Stricker told me that you recommended Chuck,” I said.
His cheeks sucked in a bit and they started to flush. “I did a favor for someone by making that call. I’ve never actually met Mr. Winslow. And at this point, that’s lucky for him.”
None of this made sense and it was starting to irritate me.
“You’re big on the threats,” I said. “But yet you let me walk away last night, then have me escorted here today. To you. Why? Why not just send me on my way last night?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and chuckled. “Gina made a recommendation. I followed it. It allowed me to check up on you, understand why you were here. My courtesy has now expired.” His smile dimmed. “I’m done with you.”
“You can kick me out of your office and off your property,” I said, heading for the door. “But you can’t kick me out of San Diego. I’ll stay here until I figure out what happened to your daughter. Until I make sure everyone knows that my friend did nothing to her.”
I’d reached the door when he said “A hearse.”
I turned around. “Excuse me?”
His eyes were so hard they seemed metallic. “You go near my daughter, they won’t take you away in an ambulance. It’ll be in a hearse.”
THIRTEEN
I left Jordan’s office pissed off, but at least I knew where I stood. He could make all the threats he wanted-and I’d be wary of them-but I wouldn’t walk away from helping the one person who had never walked away from me. It was time to pay Chuck back for that kind of friendship.
; I drove back to Coronado. The high school was just letting out. The expensive cars whizzed past me as I made my way toward the gym. I wanted to shout a protest but I knew it would fall on deaf ears. Teenagers live with a feeling of invincibility right up until that feeling is unexpectedly punctured.
The gym was on the west side of the campus and I found a parking spot a block away. As I got closer to the building, I heard the squeaks of sneakers and sharp voices yelling instruction. It took me back twenty-five years to when Chuck and I were the ones in the gym, practicing with ten other guys, getting yelled at and working our asses off. It was when we had cemented our friendship and as I pushed through the heavy closed doors at the front of the building, a strange sense of deja vu overwhelmed me.
And I was nearly run over by a girl in a hurry.
She bounced off me and hit the ground, her large athletic bag landing on top of her.
“Jeez, I’m sorry,” I said, bending down toward her. “Are you alright?”
She pushed the bag off of her and sat up.
The bruises were fading and the cut above her nose was still sewn shut with several ragged stitches. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, hidden beneath a Coronado do-rag.
“I’m fine.” Meredith Jordan ignored my hand and stood. “Sorry.”
I stared at her for a minute, contemplating.
“Meredith, my name’s Joe,” I finally said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She stepped away from me, her eyes immediately wary. “How do you know my name?”
I couldn’t think of anything other than the truth. “Chuck Winslow is a friend of mine.”
The fear left her face. Now she just looked guarded. “I have to go.”
She tried to go around me, but I stepped into her path. “Wait. Come on. He was arrested and now he’s in the hospital. He didn’t really do this to you, did he?”
She looked at me, surprised. “Hospital?”
“He’s hurt pretty bad,” I said. “He can’t talk right now. But when he can, he’s gonna tell me he didn’t do anything to you.”
She hesitated again, pulling tightly on the bag on her shoulder. Three other girls walked out from the hall behind us, chattering. They quieted down as they approached, tried to discreetly keep an eye on us as they exited, then hurried along the outside walk.
