Thread of Truth, стр. 14
Tom nodded. “I understand and I agree. I'm sure they do treat dead people differently. But that doesn't necessarily mean I have confidence in their competence.”
“Fair enough.”
He glanced at his wife. “I think for our sakes, we need to know what happened to our son. Definitively. Is that something you'd be willing to look at?”
I thought for a moment. “It's not something I normally do. I'm not that kind of investigator.”
“But is it something you could do?”
He was staring at me, his expression somehow managing to convey both hopefulness and hopelessness.
“Yeah, I could do it,” I said. “Although I can’t promise how successful I'd be. I'm not sure I'm more capable than the police.”
“But at least you seem to care,” Tom said, with a note of bitterness.
“I know your experience hasn't been great so far,” I told him. “But understand that this will be a different division of the police investigating your son's death. It's their job to figure out what happened to him.”
“I understand that,” he said. “But I think we'd feel better having someone trying to figure out what happened if they had some connection to him. I felt like we established that with you the first time we sat down.”
He wasn't wrong. I was intrigued by Desmond's disappearance, by his story, and by his death. I did feel invested, but I wasn't sure that made me the best candidate to figure out what happened to their son.
But I also wasn't in a position to turn down work at that moment, and they wanted me to continue looking for answers.
“Okay,” I said to Tom and Alice Locker. “I'll see what I can find out.”
TWELVE
The next morning, I went for a quick run on the beach, showered, and ate half a bagel before heading back over the bridge.
Desmond's case had been assigned to SDPD's Northern Division. Their offices were housed in a single-level concrete structure just west of University Town Center, with a La Jolla address. I'd made a couple of calls while I ate the bagel and learned that the name of the lead investigator was Ed Carr. I'd left him a voicemail asking for a few minutes of his time, but figured I might have better luck just showing up.
I ended up being right.
The desk clerk called back for Carr and he was at the desk two minutes later. He was about my age, a little taller and a little thicker. He wore dress slacks and a button-down green shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His black dress shoes had seen better days, and most of his hair had been buzzed off.
He stood next to the desk with his hands on his hips, looking at me, then the clerk.
“I'm Carr,” he said, looking at me again. “Who are you?”
I offered my hand. “Joe Tyler. I left you a voicemail earlier about the hit and run from yesterday? Victim was Desmond Locker?”
Carr pursed his lips, then shook my hand. “Yeah, I got your message.”
“You have a couple of minutes?” I asked.
“Not really, but you're here,” he said.
He motioned for me to follow him and led me to a small conference room just past the front desk. It was nothing more than a sterile rectangle, with beige walls and beige linoleum. He shut the door behind us and pointed at the chair on the other side of the small table.
“I appreciate you taking the time,” I said. “I won't be long.”
“Doing it as a courtesy,” he said, easing himself into the chair across from me. The vinyl squeaked under his weight. “I know Mike Lorenzo. He vouched for you. Was gonna call you back, just hadn't gotten that far yet.”
Mike was my former colleague on the Coronado force and had helped me in multiple ways in finding Elizabeth. Things had gotten rocky between us for a while, but that had been my fault and I'd done my best to repair the damage. Apparently, I'd done an adequate job.
“No problem,” I told him. “I'm working for the family. They had originally hired me to find their son.”
Carr nodded. “I saw your name in the reports. Not sure how long he would've been there if you hadn't found him. Nice work.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I talked to Detective Swanson yesterday. Her initial call was hit and run. Is that how you're leaning?”
“It's more than a lean,” Carr said. “It's what happened.”
“Can you tell me why?”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his buzzed hair. “Because that's what the scene is telling us. He was clearly hit from behind. Damage to the bike showed that, as did his path into the brush. Our numbers tell us the vehicle that hit him was over the speed limit. Kid suffered traumatic injuries consistent with all of that. And given the history of the road, he's not the first to get taken out by some guy not paying attention.” He shrugged. “It's a hit and run homicide, as straightforward as they come.”
“Were you able to pull tire marks?” I asked.
He paused, then shook his head. “No. Nothing definitive, anyway. There was plenty of rubber already on the road and we couldn't tie anything directly to this. But, if the driver didn't see the victim, it's not uncommon that the brakes were never used, at least not in a way that would've left tread on pavement.”
“Any cameras in the area?” I asked.
“We're looking at them.”
“Anything look off to you about the bike tire?” I asked. “The rear one?”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Was bent to shit, which I'd expect if some asshole slammed into him.”
“It didn't look extreme to you?”
“Define extreme.”
“I don't know,” I said. “When I looked at that tire, it just looked...like more than if someone had accidentally bumped him off the road.”
He frowned and rubbed at his chin. “Look, I get it. The family is upset. Probably in some state of