Not ready for sleep, I went down to the main floor of the hotel and walked outside toward Seaport Village, a collection of shops and restaurants strung along the north end of the bay where PCH met Harbor Drive. I bought fish and chips from a walk-up window and found a small table near a fountain, trying to straighten out Chuck and the high school and Meredith Jordan in my head as I ate.
The complaint stated that Chuck knew Meredith through their contact at the high school. Maybe Chuck had some sort of mid-life crisis and decided to become a teacher. I doubted it, but anything was possible. Gina Coleman definitely knew Chuck, but I didn’t know if that was through Meredith or another avenue. Coleman was the first link of any kind I’d found and I’d go back to her soon if I had no luck elsewhere.
A couple sat down at the table next to mine with their daughter. She looked to be about seven or eight. She was small for her age and struggled awkwardly to get into her chair. The family had purchased fish and chips as well and the little girl was soaking the fries in ketchup, then jamming them into her mouth. She turned to me with stained lips and grinned.
My stomach jolted and I stood, gathering up my trash without returning the little girl’s smile.
I walked through the village to Buster’s, a beach-themed bar and grill with old longboards on the walls. I didn’t want to go sit in my quiet hotel room. I found a corner stool at the far end of the bar with a window that looked out over the boardwalk toward Marina Park. I bummed a piece of paper and pen from the bartender and started making notes on what little I knew about Chuck and Meredith. I was on my second diet soda when the guy two stools down from me motioned in my direction.
“You've got an admirer,” he said.
The guy was bigger and younger than me and looked like hell. Unshaven, black circles around his eyes. A tan that was fading.
“Excuse me?”
He motioned to the window. “Hang on. He's coming around again. He's watching you.”
Ten seconds later, I saw who he meant. A guy about six feet tall in jeans and a blue button-down walked past the window closest to me. He was subtle outside the restaurant, not really looking my way, not really doing anything. But there was a quick glance in my direction.
“That's the third time he's been by,” the guy at the bar said. “He's circling. And he's looking at you.”
“Maybe he's looking at you.”
The guy finished his beer and stood. “If he was looking at me, I'd have already broken his arm.” He kept his eyes on me as he stuck his hand in the pocket of his shorts. “He's looking at you.” He pulled out a handful of bills and laid them on the bar. “But, whatever.”
The bartender came over and shoved the bills back in the guy's direction. “On me, Noah.” The bartender placed his hands on the bar. “I heard what happened. I'm sorry, man. Liz was…”
The guy shoved the bills back toward the bartender and pointed at me. “Buy his drinks then.” The guy hesitated. “And if I don't see you for awhile, take it easy.”
The guy glanced at me, the circles around his eyes darker now, then left.
I should've thanked him, but now I was focused on who might be watching me.
I waved at the bartender and kept an eye on the window, waiting for the fourth pass. The bartender hustled over.
“You're good, man,” he said. “He got you.”
I pulled my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans anyway and unfolded it, looking for a couple of bills to tip the guy. Several quarters fell out of the fold and tumbled to the floor.
“Dammit,” I muttered, laying my wallet on the bar and bending over to pick up the quarters.
“Cute kid,” the bartender said to me when I was upright again.
“Excuse me?”
He pointed to my wallet. “She’s cute.”
The wallet had opened flat on the bar top and the picture of the young girl in the tattered plastic sleeve was staring back at me. Plain gray background, her small oval faced framed with long yellow-blonde hair. Her smile was awkward and missing two teeth, her head tilted fractionally to her left. It was taken the second week of second grade when life was still fair.
I fished quickly for cash from the back fold of the wallet, fighting a surge of nausea in my gut.
“How old is she?” he asked, leaning in to get a better look. “Seven or so?”
I found a ten-dollar bill, tossed it on the bar, folded up the wallet and shoved it in my pocket.
“Sixteen,” I said as I walked away, my steps heavy and forced. “She’d be sixteen.”