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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. It 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.”