by Jeff Shelby
Thread of Doubt
By Jeff Shelby
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Thread of Doubt
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2017
Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers and Design
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Books by Jeff Shelby
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY ONE
TWENTY TWO
TWENTY THREE
TWENTY FOUR
TWENTY FIVE
TWENTY SIX
TWENTY SEVEN
TWENTY EIGHT
TWENTY NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY ONE
THIRTY TWO
THIRTY THREE
THIRTY FOUR
THIRTY FIVE
THIRTY SIX
THIRTY SEVEN
THIRTY EIGHT
THE END
Books by Jeff Shelby
The Joe Tyler Novels
THREAD OF HOPE
THREAD OF SUSPICION
THREAD OF BETRAYAL
THREAD OF INNOCENCE
THREAD OF FEAR
THREAD OF REVENGE
THREAD OF DANGER
THREAD OF DOUBT
The Noah Braddock Novels
KILLER SWELL
WICKED BREAK
LIQUID SMOKE
DRIFT AWAY
LOCKED IN
IMPACT ZONE
The Moose River Mysteries
THE MURDER PIT
LAST RESORT
ALIBI HIGH
FOUL PLAY
YOU'VE GOT BLACKMAIL
ASSISTED MURDER
DEATH AT THE DINER
The Deuce Winters Novels (Under the pseudonym Jeffrey Allen)
STAY AT HOME DEAD
POPPED OFF
FATHERS KNOWS DEATH
The Rainy Day Mysteries
BOUGHT THE FARM
WHEN THE ROOSTER KILLS
CRACK OF DEATH
PLANTING EVIDENCE
ONE BAD EGG
BALE OUT
LAST STRAW
Novel for Young Adults
PLAYING THE GAME
Short Story Collections
OUT OF TIME
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ONE
The front door opened and I froze.
It was still a strange thing, to be living alone in the home I'd shared with Lauren and Elizabeth for so many years. I hadn't gotten used to the quiet of having the place to myself. Any noise out of the ordinary startled me and I was constantly reprimanding myself, telling myself to relax when the house creaked or a drop of water splattered into the sink.
“Dad?” Elizabeth's voice called out. “It's just me.”
I took a deep breath, the momentary anxiety leaving me at the sound of my daughter's voice.
I walked from the kitchen to the entryway. I'd just finished unloading the dishwasher and putting the dishes away when the door startled me. “Hey. What are you doing home?”
She had a duffle bag slung over her shoulder and a purple roller bag standing upright next to her. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and she wore a blue Triton’s sweatshirt and baggy gray sweatpants.
She dropped the bag to the wood floor in the small entryway. “I finished finals early. My history professor canceled his and just took our last paper for our final grade.” She rubbed at her eyes. “And I'm exhausted and just wanted to come home.”
I knew she was tired. I'd heard that for the last couple of years. She'd chosen to stay in San Diego after flirting with the idea of leaving the state for college. She was in the middle of her third year at UCSD now and it hadn't been everything she'd hoped it would be.
She was running track, but it had become more of a chore. She'd had small, nagging injuries over the last couple of years that had prevented her from truly excelling and it frustrated her to no end. She'd chosen UCSD in part because it was a smaller program and she thought she could make a bigger impact. The fact that she hadn't been able to do that wasn't something she'd ever considered.
She kicked off her shoes and set her hands on her hips. “Is it okay? That I'm home earlier?”
I frowned at her. “Of course. You don't have to ask to come home.”
We hugged for a moment and it felt good to have her back in the house.
She ran a hand over her hair after she pulled away. “Jenny and Ann were having some people over tonight to celebrate the end of finals and I just...I just didn't want to be there.”
I leaned against the wall in the entryway. “You okay?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just worn down.”
“Classes okay?”
She rolled her shoulders again. “Sure. Fine. Boring. Don't worry. I'm doing fine.”
“So much fine.”
“Whatever,” she said, smiling. “How are your classes, Mr. Tyler?”
I chuckled. “They are...fine.”
“Kids haven't turned on you yet?”
“They're afraid of me.”
“I believe that.”
When she left for school, I'd been determined to get my act together. I'd spent too many years looking for her and the years after finding her, just treading water. I needed direction. I'd taken her suggestion and gotten my teaching license, eschewing police work and investigating for something more stable and solid. I'd done my student teaching at a middle school in North Park and then stayed on for the year after as a full-time social studies teacher. I'd never felt comfortable, though, and when an opening popped up at Coronado High School, I'd more or less forced my way in. I was halfway through my first year teaching American History and I still wasn't sure what the hell I was doing.
I walked over to her and hugged her. “I will always prefer you to be home than anywhere else.”
She wrapped her arms around my waist. “I know. I should've called, though.”
“No need,” I told her. “But I am going out for a bit.”
She pulled away from me and eyed me. “Out?”
“Mike Lorenzo called and asked me to meet him for dinner,” I said.
“Mike?” Her voice raised a notch. “Everything cool?”
She associated Mike's name with much of the past in the same way I did. When he'd called, I'd felt this strange tingle at the back of my neck, something I hadn't felt for a number of years.
“I think so,” I told her. “He called me this morning and asked if I had time. I would've said no if I'd known you were coming home. I can call him and cancel.”
She shook her head. “No, you don't have to. Honestly, I'm wiped. I'm gonna shower, grab something to eat, assuming there’s food here, and then probably go to bed.”
“There is definitely food here,” I said. I looked at her, trying not to be too obvious as my eyes searched her face. “You sure everythin
g's okay?”
She reached behind her neck and for a moment, she reminded me so much of her mother. Lauren used to do the exact same thing when she was thinking. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“Yeah,” she said. “I am. I just needed the break, you know? Classes sort of sucked and I'm tired of my roommates and...I'm just whining.” She smiled. “I just need my own bed for a while.”
I nodded. “Fair enough. You wanna run in the morning?”
“No,” she said. She snorted. “But, yeah, I should.”
“We don't have to.”
“No, it's fine.”
“There's that word again.”
She rolled her eyes, another reminder of her mother. “Yes, Father, let's run in the morning.”
“I've been doing sand sprints just to break up the distance,” I told her. “Not sure you'll be able to keep up.”
She picked up her duffel. “Yesterday, we did ladders working down from 800. Three times.” She smirked at me. “I'm not worried.”
I laughed. “Alright. There's some leftover lasagna in the fridge. Bunch of sandwich stuff. I wasn't going grocery shopping until tomorrow. Or you can order a pizza.” I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. “I can give you some cash.”
She grabbed the handle of her roller. “You know I have a car, right? And a bank account?”
“I'm just letting you know.”
“Thanks,” she said. She started to walk past me, then stopped abruptly and put her head on my shoulder. “Seriously. Thanks. I'm just cranky. And I've missed you.”
Even though she was only half an hour away up in La Jolla, she tried not to come home all the time, and I tried not to drop in on her without warning. It had been hard the first year and it hadn't gotten much easier. But it was now the second week of December and I hadn't seen her since Thanksgiving and it felt way too long.
I kissed the top of her head. “I've missed you, too, kid. Glad you're home.”
TWO
Mike and I had agreed to meet at Clayton's a coffee shop just down the road from the Hotel Del. I knew parking would be an issue on Orange, so I pulled my bike out of the garage and pedaled away from the house.
The December evening air was chilly and the air felt damp, heavy with fog rolling off the ocean. I steered out of our neighborhood, my chin tucked against my chest, and headed for the diner. Christmas lights twinkled both in windows and outdoor light displays, some more elaborately decorated than others. Cars streamed by on the narrow streets, people coming home or heading out to evening activities. Another bicyclist passed me, a man in bike shorts and helmet, and acknowledged me with a quick nod as he zoomed past.
I'd been riding my bike to school nearly every day, taking the long way home, riding out along the ocean to get back to the house. I'd found that the exercise and the fresh air was a good remedy for a stressful day in the classroom. Because every day seemed to be stressful.
I'd gotten into teaching because it seemed to make sense. I had worked with kids. I liked the idea of a rigid, predictable schedule. I was comfortable speaking in front of groups. My time off would line up with Elizabeth's while she was in school.
But it had proven to be different than I'd expected.
I never felt caught up. I never had enough time. Multiple nights, I'd fallen asleep at the table, either planning a class or grading papers. There were endless meetings that I was required to attend and none of them ever seemed to have any real purpose. After attempting to be a good team player, I'd started avoiding the faculty lunchroom because the gossiping about both the students and the other teachers drove me nuts. Parents had unreasonable expectations for their kids. The only part of the job that I was really enjoying was my interaction with my students.
But I wasn't sure that was enough.
It was becoming more of a chore to get out of bed to get to school. I was less creative in trying to lesson plan. I was leaving school earlier, just to get home.
I kept trying to tell myself that I was still learning the job and that it would get easier, that teaching was hard and everyone struggled at the beginning. But there was a voice in my head, a soft but insistent voice that kept suggesting that maybe it wasn't for me.
I used those bike rides by the beach to try and convince myself otherwise, to tell myself to stick with it, to just put my head down and work hard. I'd spent years singularly focused on trying to find Elizabeth and I believed that that ability to focus had the potential to help me get better at teaching.
But as I pedaled along Orange and glanced in the direction of the high school, an involuntary shudder ran through me.
I just wasn't sure I wanted to get better.
THREE
I locked my bike to a streetlamp outside Clayton's and spotted Mike on the far side of the diner. He held up a hand and I waved back as I told the hostess I knew where I was headed.
“I see you on that bike all the time now,” Mike said, as I slid into the booth across the table from him. “Training for a triathalon or something?”
“Easier than finding parking,” I said.
He chuckled. “You can say that again.”
“How are you?” I asked, because it seemed like a question that I should probably ask.
“I'm hanging in there,” he said, nodding. “Hanging in there.”
I hadn't seen him in about a year. He'd put on a few extra pounds, but he still looked like the wrestler he'd been in college – stocky, with thick arms and thighs. His short, dark hair had grayed and he'd grown a mustache that shared the gray.
We traded emails every once in a while, but I'd gotten busy with the teaching job and he was edging closer to retirement from the Coronado police force. And if I was being honest, I didn't go out of my way to stay in touch with him. He'd been instrumental in helping me find Elizabeth and learning who was responsible for her abduction, and I would forever be in his debt. But that also meant he reminded me of those times, and I did my best to stay away from revisiting that period of my life. It wasn't fair to him or our friendship, but it was necessary for my own sanity. I think he understood that and never tried to push me.
“How about you?” he said, holding up his glass of water. “How are you?”
“I'm good. Same, I guess. Hanging in there.”
“Still hard for me to picture you in the classroom,” he said.
“Still hard for me to be in the classroom,” I said.
He laughed. “I'm sure you're doing fine.”
I shrugged.
A woman about my age came to the table and took our order. She scrawled on a small notepad, gathered the two menus, and said she'd be back with water for me.
“How's Elizabeth?” Mike asked, settling back into the booth.
“Good,” I told him. “She actually came home tonight for winter break. I'm happy she's home.”
“She's enjoying school?”
“I'm not sure enjoying is the right word, but she's doing well.”
“And the running?” he asked. “How’s that going?”
“Just needs to stay healthy.”
“Banged up?”
“Just little things here and there,” I said, nodding my thanks to the waitress as she dropped off the water. “Enough to keep her from feeling like she's peaking at the right times. Shin splints, pulled muscles, that kind of thing.”
He nodded. “Gotta be frustrating for her, I'm sure. But it must be nice to have her home.”
“Definitely.” There was a slight pause, just long enough to feel a little awkward. I wasn’t used to having to make small talk with Mike. “How's work for you?”
He ran down the usual things: not enough manpower, departmental politics, cuts to the budget. Coronado was a different kind of police animal. There was relatively little crime on the island, so being overworked was almost never the issue. Instead, bureaucratic red tape tended to be the focus of most employees' dissatisfaction. But Mike was a lifer, and I could tell by what he was saying that it wasn't terrible. I
t hadn't been terrible when I'd been on the force...until the lieutenant had arranged for my daughter's abduction.
Our food came, cheeseburgers for both of us, and we made more small talk until I pushed my plate away and tossed my napkin on top of it. “So. What's up, Mike?”
He wadded up his napkin and set it on the table. He picked up his glass and swirled the ice around inside of it, the small cubes clinking against the glass. “I need a favor.”
I looked at him, eyebrows raised. “A favor?”
He swirled the ice some more, took a drink from the water, then set the glass down. “You ever meet my sister's kid? Patrick?”
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “I don't think so.”
Mike nodded like that was the answer he expected. “I didn't think so, but I wasn't sure. My sister Cleo, Patrick is her son. He's a first-class fuck up.”
It wasn’t a description most uncles used for their nephews. “Awesome.”
“Yeah. I've tried with the kid over and over and have had no luck,” Mike explained. “He's a wannabe musician, and he's been in and out of rehab for the last couple of years. I even paid for one stint because he looked me in the eye and told me he wanted to get clean.” He shook his head. “He was full of shit. My sister has probably had three near heart attacks worrying about the kid.”
I made a face. “That's rough.” I knew what drugs could do to people, and I also knew how desperate with worry parents could be over their children.
I had been one of them.
“And then some,” Mike said. His gaze dropped and he sighed. “I've more or less given up on him.”
“Understandable.”
He looked up. “Cleo hasn't.”
I nodded. “That's understandable, too. It's her son.”
“For sure,” he said. He fingered the napkin on his plate, rubbing the paper between his thumb and forefinger. “And I guess that's where the favor comes in.”
The server came for our plates and Mike dropped the napkin. She asked if we needed anything else and Mike asked for coffee. I told her I was fine.
She left and I turned my attention back to Mike. “What kind of favor?”
There was a moment’s hesitation and I felt my pulse tick up a notch.
Mike looked me in the eye. “Patrick is missing.”