by Jeff Shelby
Thread of Danger
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 Danger
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2016
Cover design by J.T. Lindroos
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.
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
The Noah Braddock Novels
KILLER SWELL
WICKED BREAK
LIQUID SMOKE
DRIFT AWAY
LOCKED IN
The Moose River Mysteries
THE MURDER PIT
LAST RESORT
ALIBI HIGH
FOUL PLAY
YOU'VE GOT BLACKMAIL
ASSISTED MURDER
The Deuce Winters Novels (Under the pseudonym Jeffrey Allen)
STAY AT HOME DEAD
POPPED OFF
FATHERS KNOWS DEATH
Novel for Young Adults
PLAYING THE GAME
Short Story Collections
OUT OF TIME
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ONE
“So what now?” Mike Lorenzo asked.
We were sitting in Clayton's Coffee Shop on Orange, a diner decorated to look older than it actually was. Maroon vinyl booths and bar stools, silver tabletops, and old-fashioned signs provided the ambience. I was on my second cup of coffee, an oversized mug with the restaurant’s logo emblazoned on it, and had polished off the eggs and bacon I'd ordered. Mike, my former colleague, former mentor, and still friend, was working his way through a thick Belgian waffle buried under strawberries and whipped cream.
He'd called the night before and asked if I wanted to have breakfast. I'd ignored two other messages he'd left for me, and I knew I couldn't avoid the only detective on the Coronado police force much longer. He’d find me, whether I wanted to be found or not.
“What now?” I repeated. When he nodded, I shrugged. “I don't know. Elizabeth and I are going for a run this afternoon. Probably grill something for dinner.”
He used his fork to slice off a piece of the waffle. He dabbed it in a dollop of whipped cream before taking a bite. He furrowed his brow at me. “Not what I mean, Joe, and you know it.”
I did know it. I wasn't sure, though, what he wanted me to dig into. He wasn’t my shrink. He was barely my friend. Not because I didn’t want him or need him, but I was in avoidance mode after Lauren’s death. I didn’t want to need or want anyone. Except Elizabeth.
I shifted in the booth, the vinyl squeaking beneath me. “I have no idea, Mike. I'm day-to-day right now, okay?”
“We all are.” He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and wiped his mouth with his napkin. There was still a dot of whipped cream above his upper lip. “But have you thought about anything?”
I eyed him for a moment. “I think about a lot of things.”
Mike winced. “A poorly worded question. Sorry.”
I shrugged again. I knew he wasn't trying to upset me. I knew he cared. But that didn't make anything easier. I wasn't trying to make him uncomfortable, either, but he—maybe more than anyone—had a handle on what my life was like now without Lauren.
And why.
“I mean, like, for a job,” he clarified. “Have you thought about anything?”
I picked up the coffee mug again. “Not really.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “Not really room in my head right now for that. And I'm not sure I'd be any good to anyone for anything.”
“I don't know about that,” Mike said. He ate the last bite of waffle, dragging it through the whipped cream. He pushed his plate away, wadded up his napkin and tossed it on top of the plate. “But I get it.”
There was a lull in our conversation but no silence. The diner was too busy for that: forks and knives scraping against plates, the din of conversation at other booths and the large bar area in the center of the restaurant, and the constant hum of sounds from the kitchen.
He cleared his throat. “Elizabeth is doing alright?”
I nodded. “Better than me, I think,” I said. Our waitress reappeared with a fresh pot of coffee and she topped both of us off. “Yeah, she's alright.”
Mike tapped his finger on the table, probably so he wouldn’t be tempted to point it at me. “But you're not?”
I held tight to the ceramic mug, the heat almost unbearable, and thought about Lauren. “I'm not sure what I am.”
He leaned back in the booth, scrubbing his chin with his hand. “Understandable.”
I wasn't sure it was, and I wasn't sure if I'd ever be alright again. I needed to be for Elizabeth, and I was learning to fake it, but I wasn't sure I'd ever be okay on the inside again. Which meant avoiding a lot of real life. Like a job.
“But maybe if you had something to do, it might help,” Mike said.
“I have something to do,” I said. “Take care of my daughter.”
He nodded. “Sure. She's absolutely the most important thing, Joe. I hear that.” He paused. “But eventually she's probably going to go to college or something and she's going to move forward and you can't be stuck in neutral.”
He wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t already thought about a thousand times over. The thoughts my mind drifted to when I was alone, the thoughts that took center stage when I should have been sleeping.
“So, what is this?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow. “An intervention?”
He made a face. “Come on. I wouldn't do that to you. You know better.”
I didn't say anything.
“Have you thought about getting back on the job?” he asked.
I stared at him. “As a cop? Are you serious?”
He shrugged.
I laughed, because it was absurd. “I'm pretty sure the background check they'd have to do might lead to even bigger problems for me, don't you think?”
I didn’t have to elaborate. He knew what I was referring to. Finding Elizabeth had resulted in my doing things I wasn't proud of and that the legal system would've locked me up for. I'd removed multiple souls from the planet, but no matter how vile those men were, there was no way to classify what I'd done as other than murder. I didn't need anyone looking too closely at where I'd been or who I'd been in contact with. Those ghosts needed to stay buried.
He picked up his own mug and held it up to his lips. “I suppose. But maybe it doesn't have to be like that.”
I didn't understand. “I'm not following, Mike. And if you asked me to breakfast to encourage me to come back to the police force, this was definitely a waste of time.”
He frowned, and for the first time I noticed the deepening lines, the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. “Time with an old friend is never a waste, Joe.”
I appreciated him saying that. We'd hit a rough patch because I hadn't trusted him before I'd found Elizabeth, and then I’d thought he might've played a role in her disappearance. I'd been wrong, but my assumptions and not giving him a f
air shake had hurt him. Rightly so. He was one of my oldest friends and one of the few people who, besides me, had never given up on finding Elizabeth. Though I hadn't told him everything about the aftermath and what I'd done to exact revenge on both the people responsible for her abduction and the man who'd killed my wife, I was certain he'd put those pieces together.
And let them go. Because that was the kind of friend he was.
“There are other things you could do,” Mike said. “Go back to investigating missing persons case.”
“No.”
That was the one thing I was sure I couldn’t do. I’d lived through that for almost a decade, helping other people try to find their missing children while I looked for my own. Going back to that environment would be a constant reminder of what I’d lived through and the payment that had been exacted for getting Elizabeth back. I knew I wasn’t strong enough for that.
“Okay,” he said slowly, his eyes still locked on me. “But you could be a regular private eye. Not missing persons cases,” he said quickly when I opened my mouth to protest. “You're good at it, Joe. Think about it: divorce cases, embezzlement. You could consult. I could put you in touch with people. Help with cases.”
I folded my arms across my chest. I was cold and I didn’t know why. “I'm not sure I want to be entangled with that anymore. I'm not sure it's good for my health.”
“Well, neither is sitting around your house, listening to the voices in your head.” He shrugged, trying to feign indifference, but I knew him too well. I knew he was trying to look like he didn’t care. “Look, more than anything, I just want you to know that you've got options. And if I can help, I'd be happy to do it.”
“Thanks,” I said. And I meant it; I was grateful that he cared and that, however misguided, he was trying to help. “But I'll be okay.”
He just stared at me. I didn’t think be believed me, because I barely believed myself.
“I want you to be more than okay,” he finally said. “Elizabeth needs you to be more than okay.” He shifted in the booth. “I know that what happened to Lauren—”
“I don't want to talk about that, Mike,” I said, cutting him off.
He pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “Okay.”
It had come out sharper than I'd intended, but I didn't regret saying it. I didn't want to talk about Lauren. Because talking about her meant thinking about what Anchor had done to her and how it was my fault and how I couldn't bring her back. I could force myself to talk about her with Elizabeth, but it was an off-limit subject for anyone else.
“I appreciate the concern, Mike,” I said. “I really do. And I'm not trying to blow you off. I owe you. For so many things.”
“You don't owe me, Joe,” he said, shaking his head. “Ever.”
“I do, and we both know it,” I told him. “I won't forget those things. But I'm not ready to dive back into a regular life yet and take on a job or anything like that. I'm just trying to hang on and take care of Elizabeth. I'm hopeful that everything will come together, that we can move on and find some normalcy and I'll eventually get to that place. But I'm not there yet.”
I drained the contents of my mug and set it down on the table harder than I’d intended, a definitive sign that I was done with both my meal and the conversation.
Mike fished out his wallet and dropped cash on the check sitting on the edge of the table before I could reach for my credit card. “Fair enough. And when you're ready? Whenever that is?” He forced a smile onto his face. “I'll be around.”
TWO
“What did you say?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes glued to her phone.
“I asked if you were talking to Aaron.”
She didn’t look up. Her blonde hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, her cheeks slightly pink, an amused smile on her face as her fingers tapped at the screen.
I looked away, my eyes trying to find something down the beach to focus on. She was probably texting her boyfriend, which meant she was a world away. A world that she didn’t want her dad to be a part of. I didn’t blame her.
I gazed at the Hotel Del, at the red roofs that stood out like beacons against the sky, then shifted my focus to a guy walking his dog near the edge of the water. A golden lab trotting in the wet sand, its tongue lolling and tail wagging.
It was August and the late summer sun was more yellow than orange, an unusual heat blanketing the air. I'd gone home after breakfast with Mike and tried to forget our conversation. I did laundry, shoving the whites in with the darks, and mowed the front yard, purposely going slow and avoiding pulling out the weed whacker, until Elizabeth had asked if I was ready to go run. We'd just finished four miles down toward Imperial Beach and we'd stretched in the sand for a few minutes to catch our breath. It was more for me than for Elizabeth, but she hadn’t objected and she was nice enough to not point out that she was in much better shape than her middle-aged father.
The guy with the lab pulled a tennis ball from the pocket of his cargo shorts and fired it into the ocean, just beyond the break of small, choppy waves coming in from the southwest. The dog bounded after it, hopping over the small waves, not a graceful bone in its body as it navigated the sandy, uneven ocean floor. I watched as it retrieved the ball, its wet coat now almost brown, and swam it back toward the shore. I smiled and thought I might want a dog. Maybe a dog would be good for us, for Elizabeth and me. I turned to look at Elizabeth, to maybe mention this to her, when something else caught my eyes. A woman, jogging toward the man and the dog—a woman jogging toward us—her long auburn hair flying in the breeze.
I froze. And just like that, the memories hammered me, like a set of twenty-foot waves sneaking up on me with my back turned. Lauren. Dead. Gone.
Forever.
I could go for days without thinking about it, about her. I could bury it all in the back of my mind and force other things to the foreground. Not finding a job or inserting myself back into real life, but I could concentrate on Elizabeth. Elizabeth and school. Elizabeth and track. Elizabeth and her boyfriend. The house. All of those things would lull me into a false sense of normalcy until something snapped me back into the bleak reality that Lauren was gone. My ex-wife and the mother of my child had been murdered.
Because of me.
I could cut off conversations with Mike and avoid things that might trigger memories, but I couldn't escape them.
“Dad?” Elizabeth said. Her voice had a sharp edge to it. “What did you say?”
I blinked and then forced my eyes away from the woman and back to my daughter, who was staring at me with an expression of both irritation and concern. I realized she was waiting for something from me, something I couldn’t remember. Because seeing the man and the dog and the waves and the woman who looked like the dead ex-wife I still loved had distracted me from the question I’d asked her.
“Dad?” she repeated. The sharpness was gone, replaced with a hint of concern.
By some miracle, I remembered. “Are you talking to Aaron?”
Relief flashed across her face, soon replaced by irritation. She could switch moods as fast as a…well, as a teenage girl. “I’m not talking, I’m texting,” she said, returning her attention to her phone. “And no.”
She didn't offer up who she was texting and I didn't ask. I stared at the sand, scooped up a handful, and let it slide between my fingers. The sunlight glistened against the grains, the clear pebbles sparkling like diamonds. I dug deeper, found wet sand, and I stared at the handful, letting the coolness soak my fingertips, my palms. I didn’t want to look back down the beach. I didn’t want to be reminded so viscerally of what I’d lost. What my daughter and I had both lost.
“You want to eat at home tonight?” I asked her. I knew it was a change in subject, knew I was bordering on manic, but I didn’t care. “Or you wanna go out?”
Her thumbs twitched across the screen.
I sighed. Loudly.
She took the hint. “I'm sorry,” she said. “What?”
I t
ook a deep breath, felt the sweat trickle down my neck, and exhaled. “I asked what you wanted to do for dinner.”
“Dinner?” she repeated blankly, and I wondered if she had even heard a word I’d just said.
“If I have to repeat another question, I'm going to take it personally. And take the phone away and possibly throw it in the ocean where it will be lost forever until some dolphin finds it and figures out how to use it.”
She flipped the phone over, the screen on her thigh, her way of separating from it. “Sorry. We can do whatever,” she said, swiping at a loose strand of hair stuck to her forehead. “I don't care.”
“You pick,” I said. “I don't want to.” Another decision I didn’t want to make. It wasn’t like the choices Mike was asking me about, but I still wanted her opinion. Wanted her to decide.
She thought for a moment. “Danny's?”
Danny's Palm Bar & Grill. On Orange near Calvin’s Coffeehouse, a casual place with a neon palm tree sign illuminating the front. American flags and pictures of Navy SEALs on the walls, and real SEALs planted on the stools that lined the wood lacquered bar. Big burgers, decent fries, and no pretense.
I nodded. “That works for me.”
“Onion rings sound good.”
I smiled. “The best thing for a body after a long, hard run is definitely fried food.”
She chuckled and pushed at the strand of hair again, tucking it behind her ear this time. Her cheeks had almost returned to their normal color, and the fine sheet of sweat on her forehead had dissipated. “Stop. Just sounds good to me.”
It sounded good to me, too, but not just for the artery-clogging food. It would be a good distraction, something to take my mind off the woman on the beach, the woman whose hair had instantly reminded me of what was missing in our lives. Because if we went back to the house right then, I knew it would morph into one of those evenings where it would be a struggle to be in our house with Lauren not in it. It would be far easier to go sit in a restaurant and pay for a meal than it would be to stand in the kitchen and try to not think about Lauren.