Thread of Truth, стр. 28
“He wasn't using,” her husband said. “We have the results. Why would you suggest that?”
“I'm not saying he was using.”
“You just asked about a tox screen, Alice. I don't think that's because of your sudden curiosity in what a coroner does.”
She looked down at the table and her shoulders fell.
He put his hand on her arm. “I'm sorry.”
She nodded. “I know.” She looked at me. “But you're right. It doesn't make sense that he lied. And that was the world he knew best.” She turned to her husband. “It would make sense.”
Tom studied the table for a long moment. “I guess.”
“You're right in that this doesn't really help us learn who hit Desmond,” I said quietly. “But I thought you at least deserved to know.” I paused. “I have another question.”
Tom's eyes were still on the table, but Alice was looking at me.
“Did he know anyone who went by the name of Z? As in the letter?”
Alice's nose wrinkled and she glanced at her husband. “Not that I recall, no.”
Tom shook his head slowly. “I don't remember anyone like that.”
“Why?” Alice asked.
I didn't want to rattle them anymore than I already had. The emails I'd found were curious, but still not necessarily relevant to the accident. I didn't know exactly what they meant, and I didn't want to plant seeds that might grow in the wrong direction.
“When I went through his email, I saw he'd corresponded with someone who went by that letter,” I explained. “I was just curious if you knew who it was.”
Tom still seemed shaken by my questions and I felt badly.
“For what it's worth, I spoke to Olivia before coming here,” I told them. “She didn't believe he was using, either. She didn't know where the money came from, but she didn't think that he had relapsed.”
It was Alice's turn to pat her husband's arm.
“Have you heard anything from the police today?” I asked.
They both shook their heads.
“I'll put in a call today and see if I can find out anything,” I told them. “And I need to ask you this again.” I paused, making sure I had their attention. “Are you sure you still want me to work on this? I completely understand if you don't. Digging into the past when someone is gone is a tough thing. I know you want answers about the accident and that's understandable. But I don't want to make this harder on you than it already is.”
Alice looked at her husband. Her fingers flexed around his forearm. She was clearly deferring to him. I got the impression that she would've been fine moving on without my help.
Tom glanced at his wife and then turned to me. He swallowed, his face contorting as if that simple act was difficult. “We poured our lives into Desmond and we believed in him. I need to know what happened to him. I don't know why he would've lied about his job or who this Z person was, but I need to know what happened.” He glanced again at his wife before turning back to me. “No matter what you find.”
TWENTY FOUR
I don't know why he would've lied about his job or who this Z person was.
It took a second to click for me when Tom Locker said it.
I don't know why he would've lied about this job.
Or who this Z person was.
Stan Zavalla.
I called Zavalla's number from my car, but it routed to his assistant. She tried to get me to leave a message, but I told her it was urgent and I needed to talk to him in person. She told me she couldn't give out his location and that she'd have to contact him separately. I told her I was happy to wait. She was not terribly happy with me staying on the line, but two minutes later, she was back, telling me he would be at a park in Carmel Valley for the next hour. I got the address from her, thanked her, and headed in that direction.
Zavalla was standing in the parking lot next to his big red truck when I got there, a cell phone to his ear. He was wearing the very same outfit he'd had on when we met the first time, and he frowned when he saw me pull in. He ended his call and shoved his phone into the pocket of his work pants.
“My assistant said you were rude,” he said when I got out.
“I wasn't rude,” I told him. “I was persistent.”
“I don't appreciate it.”
“Sorry,” I said. “You hear about Desmond?”
“Haven't heard from him or about him.”
“He's dead.”
Zavalla took off his sunglasses. “Serious?”
“Very. I was the one that found him.”
He pushed up on the brim of his hat. “Shit. That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
He dug the toe of his work boot into the asphalt and shook his head.
“You ever talk to him outside of work?” I asked.
He made a face at me, confused. “What do you mean? Kid was too young to have a beer with me after work.”
“I don't know,” I said. “Emails, texts, anything like that?”
He thought for a moment, twirling his glasses in his hand. “Pretty sure I texted him once or twice, just about start times. That kind of thing. That's it.”
“You sure?”
The glasses stilled. “What are you asking me, man?”
I took a look around. There were half a dozen guys hustling around the park with trimmers and blowers, two more on riding lawn mowers. Marco was on a mower, leaning to the right and watching his line carefully.
“Your whole business is vulnerable,” I said.
Zavalla looked at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re paying guys under the table,” I said. “And my guess is most if not all are undocumented. Which means they aren’t being taxed, and neither are you.”
His mouth set in a firm line, his expression unreadable.
“Everything you have is vulnerable,” I continued. “One call and it’s all gone, and you’ve got a headache