Thread of Hope (The Joe Tyler Series, #1) (2 page)

“Said he didn’t do it,” she said, frustration showing in her bunched up eyebrows.  “Then he shut down and asked me to find you.”  She studied me.  “Which, by the way, wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever tried to do.  If I hadn’t run across Lauren’s number in his phone, I’d still be looking.  Where the hell have you been?”

“You think the charge is solid?” I asked.

Annoyance flashed through her eyes.  But it passed quickly.  “As solid as you’d expect.  He knew the girl.  There was some corroboration by some of the girl’s friends that they were spending time together.  Alone.” 

“She said, he said,” I said.

“Pretty much.  The bruises tend to back it up,” she said.

“He didn’t do it.”

“Gonna need more than that, Joe.”

“So you can deal it down?” I asked.  “Cut its legs off and turn it into a misdemeanor?”

Her cheeks flushed and irritation rippled through her small, compact body.  “Fuck you.  I’ve already done ten times more for him than some P.D. would’ve done by trying to dig up your sorry ass.  Because Chuck’s a friend.  You wanna work on your bad lawyer clichés, I’ve got plenty of other clients who want my time.  I couldn’t care less.” Her eyes narrowed.  “And you’re the last person I’d expect to be throwing around bullshit accusations.”

She was right, but I didn’t apologize.  “What happened to him?”

She eyed me carefully before she spoke.  “They’re calling it a random attack.  Maybe a robbery gone bad.  Seems he was running on the beach and got jumped.  No wits, of course, because that would be too easy.  He’s been unconscious since he was found.” 

It would’ve taken more than one guy to bring down Chuck.  “Is he gonna be alright?  Doctor just gave me the basics.”

“It’s the skull fracture that’s the issue,” she said.  “There’s some swelling and bleeding in and around the brain.  Assuming the swelling and bleeding subside, he should be okay.  But he won’t be alert until that happens.”

Like the doctor, she didn’t state the obvious, that the swelling and bleeding might not subside.

“You’re an investigator now?” Jane asked.  “That’s what Lauren said.”

“Not officially.  I’m not licensed or anything.”

“But it’s what you do, right?  Mostly cases involving kids?”

I glanced past her toward the front doors.  A man and a very pregnant woman walked in, glancing at each other, nervous smiles on their faces.  She whispered something to him and they giggled.  The man kissed her on the cheek as they walked past us toward the information desk.

I shifted on the sofa.  “Lauren tell you that, too?”

She shrugged.  “You know how it is.  I hear things every so often.  I would’ve found you.  Crossing paths with Lauren just sped up the process.  But I did find other bits and pieces.  Seems like you’ve been able to help some people.”

The first few years after I left Coronado and San Diego, I had trouble looking people in the eye when they said something similar.  I didn’t know how to take the compliment.  But I’d finally gotten past it.  I met Jane’s gaze.  “I do alright.”

An uncomfortable look settled on her face and I knew what was coming.  “I’m sorry, Joe.  For everything you went through.  Both you and Lauren.  I’m sorry.”

I’d heard it so many times that I was numb to reacting.  I responded automatically.  “Thank you.”

She opened the satchel on the ground next to her feet, pulled out a file and leveled her eyes with mine.  “But I have to say, I’m not sure having you attached to this is going to help Chuck.  Your name comes with a lot of baggage.”

“I know.” 

“And more than a few people here still think...”

“I’m here to help Chuck,” I said.  “And I could give a shit what anyone here thinks of me.”

She kept her eyes on me, pursing her lips, like she was trying to make some sort of decision.  Finally she shrugged and handed me the file folder.  “That’s what I’ve got.  It’s not much, at least for coming up with a defense.  Nothing much will happen until he’s in better shape.  It buys us some time.  Keep me in the loop and I’ll do the same.”  Jane stood and hesitated for a moment, her eyes looking past me.  “People already know, Joe.”

“Know what?”

She pulled the satchel over her shoulder and refocused her eyes on me.  “I grabbed a sandwich over at Ike’s before I came over to meet you.  And goddamn if half the restaurant didn’t already know.  No idea how that shit happens, but it does.  This place is worse than a girl's bathroom in a middle school.”

I stood, the folder in my hand, uneasiness filling my chest.  “Know what, Jane?”

She raised an eyebrow.  “They already know you’re back.”

THREE

I walked out of the hospital.  Palm trees waved in the breeze, the smell of the ocean riding the air as if to remind me I was in a place that used to be home.  Massive aircraft carriers hulked beneath the arching blue bridge on the other side of the bay, anchored to the south end of downtown.  I sat down on a stone bench just off the main doors and opened the file Jane gave me.

The complaint had been filed on behalf of eighteen-year-old Meredith Jordan.  It said the contact between her and Chuck had come as a result of their relationship at Coronado High School.  And it said Chuck beat the crap out of Meredith Jordan.

I stopped reading.  Two questions immediately popped into my head.  What was Chuck doing on a school campus?  And more specifically, what was he doing at our alma mater?  He wasn’t a teacher or administrator last I knew and I was willing to bet that hadn’t changed. 

As unlikely as it was to find him on any school campus, Coronado High School’s would’ve been the last one on the list.  We spent four years there and while I hadn’t minded high school, Chuck thought it contained all the charm of a toxic dump.  He had clashed with teachers, coaches and our classmates and barely managed to graduate.  He’d skipped the graduation ceremony and as far as I knew he hadn’t had anything to do with the school since he walked off the campus more than two decades prior.

He’d spent most of his adult life working construction.  He started out as an employee for a homebuilder, but didn’t care much for taking orders and building tract homes.  He’d gotten his general contractor’s license and built a small but thriving business of his own when I’d left Coronado.  He was happy doing it. 

I flipped quickly through the papers in the file until I found what I was looking for.  Five photos were clipped to the back flap of the folder.  Meredith Jordan was a pretty girl beneath the bruises.  Long brown hair.  Two perfectly brown oval eyes above a slender nose.  Cheekbones that looked magazine cover worthy.  At least, before someone had used her as a sparring partner.

There was a wide cut across the bridge of her nose.  Deep purplish rings encircled the pretty eyes.  Small yellow bruises dotted her cheeks.  Red lines that resembled fingerprints snaked around the middle of her neck.  Another cut at the right corner of her mouth gave her the macabre appearance of smiling when she was doing anything but.

The damage on her face wasn’t from a fall or a car accident or any other benign occurrence.  Someone had teed her up and swung away.  Choked her for an encore.

I clipped the photos together again and paged through the rest of the file.  Dates, descriptions, times.  Nothing damning one way or another.  The photos were enough. 

I turned the pages again, looking for the girl’s address, seeing if I might recognize it.  I was surprised to find two.  One in Coronado and one up in Rancho Santa Fe.  I wondered if the girl’s parents were divorced or if they had bought their way in to one of the best public high schools in the country.  I closed the file and laid it down next to me.

A light fog was rolling in from the south, a thin layer of moisture clinging to the air.  Lauren and I used to sit on our back deck with a bottle of wine, watching the fog drift in from the other side of the island across San Diego Harbor. We'd talk about dinner plans and friends and vacations and work and family and other things you talked about when you were drunk on a cheap bottle of Merlot.  Things that held promise, provided excitement. 

I picked up the file and stood.  I took a deep breath, let the salty air filter into my nose and lungs.  Returning to Coronado was going to bring back memories.  I knew that before I'd hopped on the plane.  If I was going to help Chuck, I’d be fighting those memories the whole way and I wasn’t sure I had it in me. 

As I gazed at the now gray-looking buildings across the bay, murky behind the fog, I felt no promise.  No excitement.  No hope.

FOUR

The Jordan address in Coronado was clearly a buy-in.

On a seven-and-a-half-square-mile island, inhabited by just 26,000 people, there was only one high school.  The classes were small, the teachers rarely left, and the wealthy parents on Coronado were very involved.  It was a good high school, perhaps the best public one in the state of California.  As such, people wanted their kids to attend Coronado High School as much for the education as for the status.

But you had to live on the island to be eligible to enroll. With a limited amount of real estate and a median home price that edged closer to a million bucks every year, most folks just stared across the bay with envy.

Most folks.

The Jordan address on Coronado was a small bungalow south of the park on B Avenue.  Maybe twelve-hundred square feet with a flat roof, windows without curtains, an uninspired lawn and an empty driveway.  I knew it was vacant and didn’t even bother getting out of my car.

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.”