“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.
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.
