Thread of Truth

by Jeff Shelby

  “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. It hadn't been cleaned out in a very long time, though, and the inbox contained thousands of emails. It took me nearly an hour of wading through the spam and irrelevant emails before I stumbled on something that mattered.

  I was clicking any email that didn't have a subject header. Most were from his parents, reminding him about something on the calendar or something else just as benign, but then I ran across one from another Gmail sender with what looked to be a system generated user name of letters and numbers.

  I'm not giving you anymore.

  It was a single sentence but I was able to scroll down because it was part of a long string of back and forth emails, started by Desmond.

  I need it tomorrow.

  How much tomorrow?

  500.

  This has to stop.

  500.

  Fine. But that's it. Then we are done.

  Maybe.

  Fuck you.

  LOL Oh well. 500 tomorrow.

  You can't keep doing this to me.

  500 tomorrow or I tell everyone.

  Fine.

  Thanks.

  Fuck you.

  Rude.

  I'm not giving you anymore.

  I read through the string several times, just to make sure I had a feel for it. I checked the metadata to see if there was anything in there that might give me an idea of who the other sender was, but found nothing. I printed out the email, then searched the inbox for the sender's email. One more string came up and I read through it. Desmond, again, started it.

  Hey. I need a thousand.

  A thousand? You aren't serious.

  Z, I'm super serious. A thousand.

  I'm not rich, Des.

  Fine. Eight hundred.

  Come on.

  Eight hundred. Or you know what happens.

  I had no idea you were such an asshole.

  I'm not but I need money.

  So this is how you get it? Extorting me?

  Eight hundred. I'll come by to get it.

  There was no response.

  I searched the inbox again for the email address, but it gave me just the two strings I'd already found. They were about two weeks apart and the first string I'd found had been a week before Desmond disappeared. Given how familiar the emails were, I assumed he'd deleted previous emails that might've been along the same line. He had probably just forgotten about these two or assumed he'd have time to delete them later.

  I printed out the second conversation and laid both email strings on the table in front of my now empty plate. It seemed clear to me that this had been at least one way Desmond was getting his hands on money. I wasn't sure that it told me anything about the accident that killed Desmond, but it was something that seemingly no one else in his life knew about.

  Or chose not to tell me about.

  TWENTY TWO

  “Did Desmond know someone named Z?” I asked.

  Olivia Cousins frowned at me. “You mean like the letter?”

  I'd called Sharon Cousins and asked if it was okay if I could stop by for a few minutes. She didn't seem thrilled, but she didn't say no. I'd promised her I wouldn't be there long, that I'd just run across something I wanted to ask Olivia about. She agreed to let me come by, so I'd cleaned up my breakfast dishes and headed back up to the north county and the Cousins home.

  Sharon and Bill were both in their usual hovering positions, as wary of my presence as ever.

  “Like the letter,” I answered. “Maybe it's a nickname or something like that?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don't think so.”

  “What does this have to do with Desmond's death?” Bill asked, glaring at me.

  “I'm just going through some old emails and things that his parents gave me,” I told him. “Trying to tie up loose ends.”

  “I don't see how loose ends are going to help you find whoever ran the kid down,” he grumbled.

  “I'm not sure it will,” I said, looking at Olivia again. “No one at school? At his job, maybe?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip for a second. “Not that I can think of. I mean, I haven't been at school in a while because of the baby. So I guess it could be someone there. And I don't know anyone at the landscaping company. Like, no one.”

  “Do you know anyone that might've lent him money?” I asked.

  “Money?”

  I nodded.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Bill asked, squinting at me.

  I wasn't ready to show them the emails yet, but I didn't see any reason to hold back on what I'd learned. “Desmond wasn't working as much as he told you he was.”

  Olivia looked as if she didn't understand the words coming out of my mouth.

  “He wasn'
t picking up extra hours,” I explained. “I talked to his boss. He had asked for more hours, but Mr. Zavalla didn't give him any.”

  All three of them were now staring at me.

  “I don't know what it means,” I said. “It may not mean anything. It's just something I've run across and I'm trying to find an answer.”

  “So he was lying?” Olivia said, still disbelieving. She shook her head. “He wouldn't do that to me.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “Was he dealing?” Bill asked. “Because that would make sense.”

  “I haven't run across anything that would indicate that,” I told him, though it had crossed my mind.

  “I never bought that he was totally clean.”

  “Bill, Jesus,” Sharon said, her voice giving way to an exasperated sigh. “Give it a rest.”

  “What?” He gestured at me. “You heard what he said. Desmond had cash, but he wasn't working.”

  “He was working,” I corrected. “His usual shifts. But he wasn't working the extra hours he claimed he was. At least not landscaping.”

  “How else would he have gotten his hands on all that money?” Bill asked. His eyes drifted to the baby swing and crate of toys. I didn’t see the car seat anywhere. “Come on. It's what he knew, and it was probably easy for him. Selling to his old buddies.”

  Olivia's face contorted with pain and tears filled her eyes. “I don't believe that.”

  Bill's frown softened when he looked at his daughter.

  “I don't know where he was getting the money,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “It seems that he had some because of the things he bought. We don't have any idea where he got it. That's what I'm trying to figure out. I don't want to jump to any conclusions without some good answers.” I smiled at Olivia, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt. “And it sounds like it's a mystery to you, which is what I wanted to find out.”

  She sniffed. “I don't know where he got the money.”

  Bill Cousins stood. “I think we're at an end point here.”

  I looked at him. “End point?”

  He sighed. “Look, I understand that the Lockers are hurting. I really do. But so is my daughter and she has to start figuring out what's next for her. It's terrible what happened to Desmond. No matter how I felt about him, I mean that. It's terrible.” He paused. “But trying to figure out what Desmond was doing or finding the jerk that ran him down isn't going to help Olivia. And she's our first concern right now. Our only concern, really. I understand the Lockers may need that, but we don't.”

  I stood. “I understand.” I looked at Olivia. “I'm sorry if this was upsetting. I didn't mean for it to be.”

  “I'm fine.” She looked anything but.

  Bill walked me to the door. “I know you're just trying to do your job,” he said, lowering his voice. “But we have to focus on our daughter now. And the police have made their call on the case. So I'm going to ask that you leave her out of whatever you're trying to do for Desmond's family.”

  “I hear you,” I told him. I stood in the entryway. “Do you really think he was dealing?”

  “I have no idea. But it was the first thing that came to my mind.”

  “Did you ever see any evidence he was using again?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I'm not an expert, either.” He paused. “But you tell me. How else does a kid without a job get his hands on the kind of money he was spending?”

  It was a very good question.

  TWENTY THREE

  “Was your son using again?” I asked.

  Tom and Alice Locker were sitting at their kitchen table, across from me. I'd driven there after my talk with Olivia, wanting to poke around a little about what they thought their son might've been into before his death.

  “What?” Tom couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “Was he using again?” I repeated.

  Tom glanced at his wife, then shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

  I looked at Alice.

  “No,” she said, resolute in her agreement with her husband.

  I didn't want to offend them, but I also wondered if they were overlooking what was going on with their son because they didn't want to see it. After all, they’d readily admitted they’d been guilty of that once before. “You're saying you don't think there's any possibility he had a relapse of some kind?”

  Tom stood abruptly and left the room without a word. I wasn't sure if he was angry with me or what, but I was shocked that he’d simply gotten up and walked out.

  Alice looked just as surprised. Her cheeks burned red and she refused to look at me.

  He returned a moment later with a piece of paper in his hand. He slid it across the table to me as he sat down. “Take a look.”

  The sheet was a series of dates beneath Desmond's name. It looked like a medical report of some sort, but I wasn't entirely sure of what I was looking at.

  “It's his urinalysis tests,” Tom said. “He was required to go every week as part of his probation and community service. The last date on there is two days before he disappeared.” His expression was hard. “See how it says negative for every date on there? That means not once did he test dirty. Not once. He was clean.” He shook his head. “He wasn't using.”

  I slid the paper back to him. “Thank you. That's good to know.”

  It was. And it was hard evidence to refute in any way.

  “Why are you asking?” he pressed. “There has to be a reason.”

  I explained to them what Stan Zavalla told me, but held off on the emails. Both of Desmond's parents appeared shocked when they realized what I was telling them.

  “That can't be right,” Alice said slowly. The blush from her cheeks was gone, as if the color had been physically drained from her face.

  “I spoke to Zavalla,” I told them. “He was very clear. Desmond asked for the hours, but he didn't give them to him. Desmond was not working extra hours for him.”

  “Then where was he getting the money?” Tom asked, sounding skeptical of what I'd just told him. “How was he coming up with the money to buy things for the baby and for Olivia?”

  “It's a good question,” I said. “Which is why I asked about his possible using again. The seemingly fastest way to get his hands on extra cash would've been if he'd been dealing. He knew the world, and he probably could've connected with the right people to sell.”

  Tom stiffened in his chair. “That would've been against the terms of his probation. There's no way he would've done that.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “But the fact that he was lying about where he was getting money from is...something to consider.”

  Alice leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “He was getting the money from somewhere,” I explained. “I don't know where yet. He clearly wasn't being honest with you about the source. I think you need to look at why he would've chosen to lie to you about that.”

  “I'm not sure how that helps us figure out what happened to him,” Tom said.

  “I'm not sure it does,” I admitted. “But I talked to Zavalla and found this out before I knew about the accident. I thought you needed to know.”

  “Will they do a toxicology screen on him?” Alice asked. “I know they were doing an autopsy but is that automatically included?”

  Tom jerked his head in her direction. “What?”

  She pressed her fingers to her temples, as if they ached. “Tom. We have to be realistic about his history.”

  “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.”