Thread of Hope

He’d gotten the message I’d left for him at the station and when he called at the Jordan home, he’d asked me to meet him at the park not just because he loved baseball, but because he knew it was probably the most private place we could get together. Not that he was doing anything wrong meeting with me, but we both knew being seen on the island would get too many tongues wagging.

Mike dug into the bag of popcorn in his lap. “Fine. You look better than I thought you might.”

“Must’ve thought I’d look like shit.”

“Just about,” he said, before shoving a handful of the popcorn into his mouth. “Thought I got your message wrong when I read it.” He glanced my way. “Shoulda known you’d come back for your buddy, though.”

I shrugged.

“Bazer left me a message, too,” he said, brushing the salt from his hands and smiling wryly. “Said I should steer clear of you.” He set the bag of popcorn on the ground between his legs and the smile grew. “Oops.”

I laughed.

Mike was the only detective on the Coronado force and had held that title for almost twenty-five years. My intention had been to get in line for that spot when he retired and I’d told him that my first year on the job. He’d been unimpressed, having heard it too many times before, but after a few months of my pestering him, he began to take me seriously and we became close friends, despite the fact he was old enough to be my father.

And being the only detective on the island, he’d drawn my daughter’s case.

“Here’s what I know, Joe,” Mike said, keeping his eyes on the field. “Two guys jumped your buddy. Based on the doctor’s report, he never saw them coming.” He pointed to the back of his head. “Took a shot back there with something pretty heavy. Crowbar, bat, I don’t know, but definitely something other than a fist.”

“Something smaller if they caught him on the beach,” I said, seeing the game but not really watching it. “Be a little tough to run down a guy in a public place with something big.”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, most likely.”

The crowd feigned enthusiasm for a Padres two-out single. “You said two guys jumped him. Jane told me there were no wits.”

“Officially, there weren’t,” Mike said. “But I got a guy who saw a little bit.”

Probably a kid messing around with drugs on the beach. Mike was like that. No reason to ruin a kid for smoking a joint where he thought he wouldn’t get caught. But somehow Mike tracked him or her down, promised to keep him out of it if he or she could convey what they saw. It was one of the reasons he was good at his job. He had no taste for the stuff that didn’t matter. His ego didn’t need it.

“Any description?” I asked.

“Generic stuff. Big, but not huge. Athletic.”

“Could he I.D. if he saw them?”

Mike paused. “Maybe. You further along on this than me?”

The crowd groaned at a weak pop fly that ended the i

“All I got is a guy who, off the record, saw two other guys jump your friend,” he said. “That and a handful of nothing.”

I smiled. “I’m not much further. Let me think on it before I pass anything along.”

Mike watched me for a moment, then nodded. He waved at the soda guy and bought one for each of us. He handed me mine.

“Based on what I’m hearing,” he said, taking a long drink from the paper cup. He wiped his upper lip. “You think this is tied to the Jordan girl.”

“You think correctly. Were you in on her report?”

Mike shrugged. “Not much to be in on. I saw the complaint, thought it was a little foggy, didn’t figure there was much to it. Either he hit her or he didn’t.”

“He didn’t.”

He crunched on a piece of ice. “Whatever. Why do you think the two are tied together?”

As we watched the game, I gave him the basics of what I’d learned over the previous couple of days. An entire i

Mike set down his now empty paper cup. Something crossed through his expression that I couldn’t read.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“I don’t like to waste time,” I answered. “Learned that from you.”

He gri

“You are old.”

He laughed. “Doesn’t mean I like to be reminded of it.” He paused. “You realize that if the Jordan girl is hooking, it’s not go

“How’s that?”

Mike frowned as a blast of music thundered through the park for a moment. He waited until it was done. “You said yourself that he was spending a lot of one-on-one time with the girl.”

“So?”

“So the first thing that’s go

It was typical Mike. Finding things in the cracks before I’d even found the crack. I wondered if I’d stuck around if I ever would’ve been as good of a cop as he was.

“Not saying that was the way it was,” Mike said. “But it’d be one more thing in the column against your friend.”

“I get it,” I said.

We watched the game for awhile. The Padres couldn’t score, loading the bases with no one out, then ending the rally with a pop out and a double play. Some things hadn’t changed in the years I’d been gone.

“The prostitution thing sound real?” I asked.

Mike hesitated, then nodded. “Probably. Rich kids with too much free time and small brains.”

“Anything ever cross your path?”

“Not officially. I’ve heard whispers, but nothing solid.” He started to say something, then stopped. The same look I’d seen before flitted through his eyes.

“What?” I asked.

He glanced at the scoreboard. “Come on. Let’s go. And I’ll tell you something.”

“Tell me what?” I asked, standing.

“Tell you something about the Jordan family that you don’t know.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

“You meet Mrs. Jordan yet?” Mike asked as we walked out of the stadium gates.

“Yeah.”

“What’d you think?”

We walked around a slow-moving family, a toddler dragging a Padre pe

Mike nodded, pulling out a Blackberry, scrolling through it, then jamming it back in his pocket. “She’s a big deal around here. Lots of charity work, volunteer shit. The whole I’m-rich-and-sharing-it-with-the-world kind of thing. Does it quietly, not publicly. But everyone knows.”

“Their house on the island is a buy in, isn’t it?” I asked.

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Is it? I don’t know. Hadn’t heard that.”

I told him about the island house I’d driven by and the Rancho Santa Fe compound.

“Sounds about right, I guess,” he said. “Not enough room to show off, probably.” He glanced at me. “Not illegal, though, and not unheard of, right?”

I nodded.

We crossed the street against a red light and a car had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting us. Mike smiled at their angry faces, waving at them like they were old friends.

“You ever think your buddy was the ringmaster?” he asked.

“What?”

“The one in the hospital,” he said, stepping up on the curb and pointing toward a crowded parking lot off to our right. “You ever think maybe he was this girl’s pimp?”

“No,” I said immediately.

He gave me a small smile. “Think about it, Joe.”

That was what he’d always said to me when I was a cop. He’d show me a file, ask me what I thought and when I’d give him an off the cuff-and inevitably wrong-answer, he’d tell me to think about it, to slow down and to look for what I wasn’t seeing. The more he said it, the more I anticipated it and the better I got at giving him the right answer.

But another thing he’d taught me was to stick to my guns when I thought I was right. “He’s my best friend, Mike. Not possible.”

Our pace slowed, as we worked our way through a maze of cars.