“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 pennant behind him. “Trophy wife. But not dumb. Gave me only what I asked for. And she wasn’t nearly as concerned about her daughter as her husband is.”
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.
“We’ve got a girl who got knocked around,” he explained. “A girl who you think was hooking. And we’ve got a guy in the hospital who was spending a large amount of time with her. You say he wasn’t using her services.” He clicked his tongue. “All I’m telling you is what it’d look like to me if you weren’t vouching for the guy.”
It was his polite way of telling me he’d be checking out that angle. That was fine. He could look all he wanted. I wasn’t buying it.
“The wife,” I said. “We were talking about Jordan’s wife.”
He nodded. “Right. The wife. You remember a cop I used to know up in Oceanside? Tully?”
I thought for a moment. I recalled the name, but nothing else. “Vaguely.”
“Good cop. Good guy. Little bit older than me, didn’t like being a cop as much as me,” Mike said. “OPD was looking at cutbacks, offered him an early get out and he pulled the pin. Moved out to Vegas and started working security for one of the Strip hotels.” He waved a hand in the air. “Bellagio, MGM, I don’t remember. But one of the big ones.”
We came to the front end of a maroon Chevy Caprice and Mike stopped, turned and sat down on the front end. The car lurched beneath his weight.
“Anyway, couple of months ago, I went out there for a night, following up on something I was working on,” he said. “He and I got together, had a couple of beers, just shootin’ the shit, that kind of thing. And he asks me if I know Jon Jordan.”
The streams of people were growing now, snaking away from the stadium and toward the parking lots. Game was over.
“I told him I knew of him, but hadn’t crossed paths with him,” Mike explained. “But somebody like that starts throwing money around Coronado and San Diego and it’s hard not to notice them.”
“Right.”
“Turns out Jordan got started in Vegas. Not exactly sure when, but he got involved in real estate out there and that was how he started stuffing his wallet. Built some condos or something, then invested in some of the off-strip hotels, helped bring them up to speed.”
I knew that from what Olivia told me. “Yeah. Then he came to San Diego and started building.”
“Sure.”
Mike was dragging the story out and it was starting to test my patience. “Okay. So?”
“He met Mrs. Jordan in Vegas.”
I waited. Again, I already knew this from my conversation with Olivia. Mike just smiled at me, his arms folded across his chest, like he’d told me everything there was to tell.
“I don’t get it,” I finally said. “Who cares where they met? What does that matter?”
“He met her in one of the hotels he was invested in,” Mike said.
“I know that,” I said, annoyed. “Olivia Jordan told me that herself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “She tell you that her work was hooking?”
Several groups of people strolled by us as I processed that.
“Hotel security in Vegas, they keep databases on everything and according to Tully, they’ve got records all the way back to the dinosaurs,” Mike said. “With more information than you’ll ever wanna know. Anyway, he’s going through the database one day, just checking names and faces, her name stops him because it gave her current address as San Diego. He poked around a bit, got a chuckle out of a Vegas hooker marrying some real estate magnate and them moving off to San Diego to live happily ever after. He made a mental note to ask me. At the time, it didn’t mean much to me.” He shrugged and unfolded his arms from his chest. “Everybody’s got their shit to deal with, right?”
I nodded slowly, working the information over in my head. “And now I’m asking about her missing daughter and wondering if the girl is a prostitute.”
“Kind of weird, no?” he asked, but I knew the question was rhetorical.
I sat down on the hood next to him. “You think she’s pimping her kid out?”
“I don’t think anything,” Mike said. “There’s nothing to suggest that she's still in the game or even knows that her daughter might be following in her high-heeled footsteps. As far as I know, Mrs. Jordan hasn't been in business down here. The charity stuff is for real. I’m just telling you because of what you told me about the daughter.”
He was right, of course. Nothing was concrete. But I wasn’t buying the coincidence. The story was odd, but the daughter of a former prostitute turning to prostitution herself seemed like more than happenstance.
Mike eased himself off the car. “I’ll check with a couple of vice guys at SDPD, see if anything’s there. Like I said, I haven’t seen or heard anything on the island. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t going on elsewhere.”
“Thanks.”
We stayed there for a moment, seagulls screeching above us, knowing that an empty parking lot would soon provide them with their own personal buffet.
“About a month ago, I thought I had it,” Mike finally said.
The tone of his voice had changed. The smile was gone and his face wore a somber, exhausted mask. I knew where he was going, but I didn’t say anything.