Thread of Truth, стр. 9
Olivia shot to her feet, pulling the baby to her chest. He let out a startled cry. “You're such a jerk. Such a jerk.” Her eyes filled with tears. “You don't even know him.”
“I know enough,” her father repeated. “And this isn't a coincidence.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks just as the baby’s cries intensified. She shifted him to her shoulder, holding him close. She wouldn’t look at either of her parents.
Instead, she focused her attention on me.
“Desmond wouldn't leave me.” Her voice was barely a whisper but there was no mistaking the force behind her words. “He just wouldn't.”
SEVEN
Stan Zavalla was the next name on my list of people to contact. The Lockers had given me Zavalla’s business card, along with the information that Desmond had been working for him. I dialed the number printed on the card and he answered on the second ring, a bit out of breath. I told him who I was and why I was calling. He didn't seem terribly eager to meet with me, but I pressed him enough that he finally agreed, as long as I didn't mind doing it outside.
Zavalla gave me directions to an office park on the east side of University Town Centre, one of the many complexes that had risen from the sand and gravel in the previous decades. What had once been a wasteland was now a hub of offices and tech companies and industry. I pulled into a crowded lot that belonged to a four-story, triangular-shaped building with mirrored windows and strategically placed palm trees planted along the perimeter of the building. Hispanic men dressed in jeans and long-sleeved work shirts were lugging lawn equipment around the grassy areas, edging and blowing. Two men rode riding lawnmowers across the large lawn in front of the building.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking around. A tall, skinny guy in a cowboy hat and a blue bandanna around his neck lifted his chin in my direction and cut the power on his trimmer. “Help you?”
“I'm looking for Stan Zavalla,” I told him.
The man squinted at me. “He know you are coming?”
I nodded.
“He go to get gas,” the man said. His accent was thick. “Back soon.”
I held out my hand. “I'm Joe.”
The man shifted the trimmer to his left hand and shook. “Marco. But I'm just worker. Not boss.”
“I understand,” I said. “Do you by any chance know Desmond Locker? He worked with you guys?”
Marco smiled and nodded. “Gringo boy. Si.”
“Have you seen him?”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not in a while. He good guy, though. Works fast.”
“Any one of your other guys?” I said gesturing toward his co-workers. “Would they have seen him?”
“I sorry. I don't know what you mean.”
“He's missing,” I told him. “No one can find him. I'm trying to find him for his family.”
His brows drew together. “Like, lost?”
“Maybe. I don't know.”
His frown deepened and he held a finger up, indicating I should stay put. He trotted over to another trimmer, spoke with him for a few seconds, then jogged over to one of the guys on riding lawnmowers. After a few moments, he jogged back to me.
“Sorry,” he said, his tone apologetic. “No one see him.” He glanced at the parking lot. “I need to work.”
There was something in his glance that gave me pause. “Boss on his way back, right? Needs to see you working?”
“Si.”
“Is he a good guy?” I asked. “Stan?”
Marco hesitated, then nodded. “He is fine.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
He glanced again toward the parking lot. “I need to work. He has the work. He pays me.” He shrugged. “Is fine.”
There was something else there, but I didn't want to keep him nor get him in trouble. “Okay. Thanks, Marco. I appreciate it.”
He nodded and turned back to the grass. Then he turned back to me. “Gringo boy. Desmond. He will be okay?”
I smiled at him. “I hope so.”
EIGHT
Five minutes later, a gleaming red oversized pickup pulled into the lot, several stalls down from me. A short, squat man with mirrored sunglasses and an oversized, wide-brimmed hat got out. He was in khaki hiking pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. He lugged two cans of gas to Marco, exchanged a few words with him, then pivoted and headed in my direction.
“You Tyler?” he asked, taking his sunglasses off.
“I am.”
He held out a hand. “Stan Zavalla.”
We shook. He had brown eyes and a thick, black mustache that did a good job of camouflaging his upper lip. Sweat beaded his tan forehead. “Sorry I wasn't here when you got here. We have to get this done today and I'm one man down on my morning crew.”
“It's no problem at all,” I told him. “Thanks for meeting with me. I'll try not to keep you too long.”
Before he could respond, one of the edgers fired up just down the walk from us. Zavalla motioned for us to move into the parking lot.
“Normally, I'd tell him to hold off,” he said when the noise was behind us. “But, like I said, we gotta get done here and move on.”
“I hear you,” I said. “It's your company?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Was my father's a long time ago when he came over from Mexico, but was kind of informal. I used to work for him, mowing and doing all the stuff no one else wanted to do. He wanted to retire and asked me if I wanted the company.” He grinned. “I told him yeah, as long as he didn't mind me making some changes.”
“Changes?”
“He did residential mostly,” Zavalla answered. “The big money, though, is this kind of stuff. Office parks, school districts. That's what we do now. Contracts, man. That's where it's at.”
“Makes sense.” I glanced back at the workers, and then down the road, taking in the sheer amount of landscaping needed for the businesses lining both sides of the street. I could