Jeff Shelby - Thread of Hope

“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.”

“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.”

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 said, 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.