Thread of Truth, стр. 25
“I'm not making any bets,” I told her, popping the trunk to my car.
“Why? Are you a chicken? Or are you just admitting I'm right?”
“I'm not admitting a thing,” I told her.
“Then bet me,” she said. “Or go buy a chicken coop to reside in.”
I sighed. “Fine. What is your bet?”
“You call her,” she said. “Ask her to go to lunch or something. If she says yes, I win. If she says no or something about keeping it professional, you win.”
“What exactly are the stakes of your imaginary bet?” I asked.
She thought for a moment. “If I win, I get dinner at Donovan's after graduation.”
This was not a small thing. She knew how much I hated paying for expensive dinners, and she knew it would kill me to pay for dinner at one of the priciest steakhouses in La Jolla.
“And if I win?” I asked.
“Your call.”
I grinned. “Okay. You have to come home and mow the yard for the next three months. Twice a month.”
This was not a small thing, either. She despised yard work and, particularly, mowing. Where I liked being outside and doing the yard work, she viewed it as a form of punishment.
She wavered. “Seriously?”
“Well, no. We don't have to bet at all,” I told her. “You were acting pretty confident, though.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Fine. It's a bet. Call her.”
“I will.”
“No. Now. I wanna hear the conversation,” she said.
“I'm not calling her now.”
“Why not?”
“Because...”
“Because you're a chicken?”
She really knew how to push my buttons.
I pulled my jeans from the bag in my trunk and fished the card out of the pocket. I grabbed my phone out of the bag and tapped the screen. “I'm not putting her on speaker.”
“Whatever,” she said, smiling smugly.
I typed in the number on her card. I knew I shouldn't let her goad me into doing it, but I also hated it when she challenged me. We were both overly competitive and she knew it would force my hand.
Swanson answered on the third ring.
“Uh, Detective Swanson?” I said.
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“It's Joe. Tyler?”
“Oh,” she said, her voice softening. “Mr. Tyler. How are you?”
“I'm fine,” I said. “And it's Joe.”
Elizabeth leaned against her car, enjoying herself far too much.
“Right. Joe. What can I do for you, Joe?”
“I, uh, well...I wondered if you still wanted to hear about my daughter's case,” I said.
Elizabeth frowned and shook her head vigorously.
“I would love to,” she said. “I just wasn't sure you were agreeable.”
“I am,” I told her. “And I, uh, wanted to hear that story.”
“Story?”
“About your name?”
Swanson laughed. “Right. Okay. Absolutely. You wanna have dinner?”
“Uh...dinner?”
Elizabeth thrust her hands in the air and did a little dance. I tried to kick her but she was just out of reach.
“Or whatever,” Swanson said. “Whatever works for you.”
“No, dinner is fine,” I told her. “Tomorrow night?”
“That'd be great,” she said. “I can come to you, if you'd like. Coronado, right?”
“Uh, sure,” I said. “And, yeah, Coronado.”
Elizabeth's eyes bulged and she pumped her fists.
“There's a place on Orange,” I continued. “Danny's. Burgers, beer, a little of everything.”
“That sounds great. Let's say seven?”
“Seven's fine.”
Elizabeth moonwalked behind her car.
“Great,” Swanson said. “I'm really looking forward to it. I'll see you then.”
“Me, too,” I said.
We hung up and Elizabeth raised her hands overhead again like she'd just won a fight. “Winner, winner, big steak dinner!”
TWENTY ONE
I woke up the next morning, sore from the attempt at keeping up with my daughter's workout. My hamstrings were tight, my lower back was stiff, and my calves felt like rocks. I skipped my normal morning run in lieu of a long, hot shower and some stretching. My body loosened up long enough for me to amble into the kitchen and make eggs and toast for breakfast.
I sat down at the kitchen table with my food and coffee and pulled Desmond Locker's laptop across the table to me. I'd called Tom Locker when I'd left the track, asking if they had access to any computers that he'd used. He told me they had a laptop that they'd be happy to turn over to me. I'd swung by their house, picked it up, and set it on the table so I could look at it during breakfast.
It was a MacBook covered in a variety of stickers. Local bands, a couple of skate brands, and some snarky sayings. The keyboard looked well used when I opened it up, as several of the letters on the most often used keys were starting to fade. The computer booted up right away, revealing a background screen that was a photo of him and Olivia, with his hand on her very pregnant stomach. They were smiling at one another, and judging by the size of Olivia’s stomach, it couldn't have been taken more than a month earlier.
I started perusing his files, but didn't see much of interest. School projects and papers, photos, music, some letters that he had to write that I assumed were part of his therapy and rehabilitation. He also had a letter of recommendation that looked as though it had been scanned and saved as a file. It was from Phil Gentry.
I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking for, but it still bothered me that Desmond had for some reason lied about working more for Zavalla. It was the one thing that felt off to me. He was clearly employed by Zavalla, but he wasn't working enough to earn the kind of money he was spending on things for the baby. I wasn't sure why he'd lied, and I wasn't sure where the money was coming from.
The mail app wasn't tied to any email address and I had to search through his history to find his Gmail account. He was still logged into it, so I didn't have to do any password guessing in order to access his email.