Thread of Truth

by Jeff Shelby

  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 that won’t go away. Pretty easy for someone to leverage you if they wanted to.” I eyed him carefully. “And I’m guessing that might piss you off in a crazy way.”

  Zavalla licked his lips and watched his guys work for a moment before turning back to me. “That what this is? You’re shaking me down?”

  “Not me.”

  “Because if that’s what you’re doing, motherfucker, you better be sure you want this,” he growled. “I fight back and I fight dirty.”

  “That what you told Desmond?”

  His entire face wrinkled. “What the fuck does Desmond have to do with this?”

  For the first time since I’d gotten there, doubt set up camp in my head. “Was he blackmailing you?”

  “Desmond?” he asked, his face still pinched together. “What are you talking about? Look, you wanna pull some shit with me, go ahead and try. You wanna make your phone calls or whatever, do it. But I’m not gonna stand here and bullshit with you.”

  It had made sense to me. His last name. The leverage Desmond could’ve had on him. The anger Desmond would’ve felt toward him because Zavalla wouldn’t give him more hours. I thought I had it figured out where he’d gotten the money from.

  But it looked like I hadn’t figured out anything.

  “Hear me out,” I said, then told him exactly why I’d come.

  Zavalla listened with his arms across his chest, the irritation never leaving his face as I explained the emails.

  “I never got a single email from the kid,” he said when I was done. “And I can’t think of anyone that calls me Z. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  He was either a great actor or he was telling the truth.

  I was certain he was telling the truth.

  “Okay,” I said, admitting defeat. “I think I just wasted your time. I’m sorry.”

  “So you aren’t looking to bust me up here?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  He shook his head, slid his sunglasses back on, and headed toward the grass.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Stan Zavalla kept walking, his middle finger extended high over his head.

  TWENTY FIVE

  I sat in my car in the parking lot for a few minutes, trying to figure out my next move. I felt like I'd struck on something with Zavalla, but that had been a dead end and I was doubting myself. I knew that Tom Locker was sincere in his desire for answers, even if he didn't like what I’d brought to him. I wasn't sure Alice felt the same way, but she didn't tell me not to. So I had an obligation to find what I could.

  I called Ed Carr to ask if he had any updates, but just got his voicemail. I left him a message, but I had a feeling I wasn't going to be high up on his list of priorities. He wasn't thrilled to have me involved even on the periphery and I doubted he was probing too deeply into what happened. He was focused on what car took Desmond down and rightfully so. I didn't begrudge him doing his job.

  I thought about calling Swanson, but I was going to see her later for dinner and I didn't want to make it any more awkward than it already was.

  So I decided to go back to the skate park because the guys there were the ones that had pointed me in the direction of something else going on with Desmond.

  The ramps were empty, save for Donnie and his lieutenant. The rest of the crew were missing in action and the two of them were sitting in the middle of the skate area, passing a joint back and forth. They glanced in my direction when I pulled up to the curb, but neither made any move to take off or to hide the weed.

  Donnie took a long hit from the joint, then passed it to his pal as I approached. He exhaled, blowing a massive cloud of smoke up and over his head. “It's Joe the investigator. Whattup, Joe the investigator?”

  His partner perched the joint between his lips and chuckled.

  “Just in the neighborhood,” I said. “Thought I'd come by and say hi.”

  They both laughed in that way that only super stoned teens can, almost like cartoon characters.

  I sat down next to them. The short guy held the joint out in my direction.

  I held up a hand. “I'll pass, but thanks.”

  He shrugged and passed it back to Donnie.

  “Went over to Seaside,” I said. “Asked around a bit. Didn't get very far.”

  Donnie blew another cloud of smoke. “Too bad.”

  “I'm hoping you can help me.”

  “Doubt it, Joe the investigator.”

  “I'm gonna try anyway,” I said. “Who, specifically, should I be talking to over there?”

  Donnie carefully set the joint on the ground between him and his buddy. He leaned back on his hands. “No clue, dude.”

  “Yeah,” his buddy said. “No clue.”

  They both cracked up.

  Donnie pointed a finger at me. “Hey. I heard you really did fuck up Sal. That is fucking awesome, man.”

  I shrugged.

  “He's in a sling,” Donnie said.

  They both burst into laugher again.

  “Well, I'm sorry if he was really hurt,” I said. “But he took a swing at
me and he shouldn't have.”

  “That's so cool,” the sidekick said.

  “What is your name? I got Donnie's but not yours.”

  “I'm Burt,” he said.

  “That's actually his last name,” Donnie said. “His first name is Greg.” Donnie started laughing. “Fucking Greg.”

  “Shut up,” Burt/Greg said.

  I let the laughing die down. “Look, I need your help. I'm not asking you guys to rat anyone out or anything like that. I just need a little help.”

  Donnie frowned. “Like, with what, man?”

  “I know that Desmond was getting money from someone,” I explained. “I don't know from who. I know it wasn't from work. You guys told me to go ask around school, which was a really specific thing to say, so I'm thinking there might be an answer for me there. I just need some direction.”

  “How's that gonna help find who ran over him?” Burt asked.

  “I don't know that it will,” I said, for what seemed like the twentieth time. “But there was something going on with him and I think his parents deserve to know.”

  They exchanged a look. I wasn't sure what was in it, but I thought there was something.

  I waited.

  “You talk to any teachers?” Donnie finally said.

  I nodded. “I did.”

  “Who?”

  “I tried to talk to all of them, but I was just able to get with two of them,” I said. “Math and History. Older guy, younger woman.”

  Donnie nodded. “We know 'em.”

  Burt nodded in agreement, grinning at me.

  “What am I missing?” I asked.

  Donnie pointed a finger at me again. “You're on the right track, Joe the investigator.”

  “Gimme more than that,” I said. “Do I need to talk to more teachers?”

  They looked at one another and laughed.

  “Nope,” Donnie said.

  “Nope,” Burt said.

  I thought for a moment. “So, what? Talk to those two again?”

  Donnie grinned. “You're a pretty awesome investigator.”

  I was trying to hold my frustration at bay. “So I should go talk to the math teacher again?”

  They both cracked up and it took them a moment to compose themselves.

  “No,” Donnie said, shaking his head. “Not that old fossil.” He pointed the finger at me. “You need to talk to...Christine.”

  Burt doubled over, laughing.

  “The history teacher?” I said, clarifying.

  “Yeah,” Donnie said, his own laughter turning it into a two-syllable word. “Christine.”

  Burt gasped with laughter and Donnie joined him.

  I thought for a moment.

  There was something behind their laughter and the way Donnie was saying her name. I wasn't sure exactly what it was, but my antenna was up and directed back at Seaside.

  I stood up. “Alright, fellas. I appreciate the help. Stay outta trouble.”

  They were both on their sides, still laughing and gasping for air.

  TWENTY SIX

  I checked in at the front desk at Seaside and found my way down to Christine Gonzowski's room. She was at her desk, a red pen flying over a pile of papers.

  I rapped on the doorframe.

  “Yeah,” she said, without looking up, her focus on the papers.

  “It's me again,” I said.

  She turned, and it took a moment to register who I was. “The investigator.”

  “That's right,” I said.

  “I'm not sure I have anything else to give you,” she said, turning her focus back to the papers. “I thought we established that. And I'm incredibly busy.”

  She was irritated to see me, and I took that as a sign that I was on the right track.

  “I don't intend to take up much of your time,” I said.

  “I believe you said that when you were here before.”

  “If you'd like, I can go down to the administration and arrange for a formal time for us to talk.”

  She set the red pen down and folded her arms across her chest. “You're here, so I don't see why that would be necessary.” She gave me a fake smile. “What can I do for you?”

  I went and sat down in a desk in the front row across from her. “As I told you before, I'm trying to get a handle on what was going on in Desmond's life before he was killed.”

  “Yes, you did tell me that,” she said.

  “I've talked to you and another teacher here,” I explained. “I've talked to his parents. I've spoken with his girlfriend and her family. I spoke to his employer. And I've spoken to some of his friends.”

  She nodded slowly. “Sounds...thorough.”

  “His parents also gave me his laptop,” I told her. “Just to see if I could find anything.”

  She frowned at me. “Why are you giving me the rundown here? Shouldn't you just be typing all of this up in a report?”

  “His friends at the skate park suggested I come back and talk to you again,” I said. “Why would they tell me to do that?”

  She shifted in her chair and picked up the red pen, tapping it against the pile of papers she'd been working on. “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

  “They were amused by the idea,” I told her. “They called you Christine, then busted up laughing.”

  She tapped the pen a little quicker.

  “They were high as kites, but there was something there,” I said. “Any idea what it might have been?”

  “Again, not the faintest,” she said. “And if you're here because a couple of kids mentioned my name while they were using drugs and you found that curious, I'd say maybe you aren't the sharpest investigator in the world.”

  “I'm not,” I said lightly. I paused. “You're sure you didn't know Desmond outside of class? In any way?”

  She shifted again in her chair, like she was physically trying to dodge the question. There had been something in the way Donnie and Burt said her name that rang a bell for me. It indicated to me that there was some connection between her and Desmond that she hadn't told me about the first time around and I wondered why. I could've been wrong, but I didn't think that I was, and her hostility toward me just made me more certain that I was right about it.

  “I really don't have time for this,” she said. “I have this entire pile of essays to grade and they have to be done tonight. I don't think I can help you.”

  “But you haven't answered the question,” I said.

  “I think I've answered it several times,” she responded.

  I looked around the room, once again noticing the timeline and the posters. On the whiteboard, her name and email were written in the far left corner, with a box around them. On the right side, she had the week's reading assignments written out, along with a reminder that all of the information was available online.

  I looked back to the left again, where her name and email was.

  Then I looked at her. “Why are you so irritated that I'm here?”

  “Because I have a lot to do.”

  “A kid died. Feels like that might take precedence over your essays.”

  She cleared her throat. “I understand that, and I'm sorry that it happened. But life goes on and I have a job to do.”

  “So do I,” I said. I stared at her. “Did you have a relationship with Desmond Locker?”

  She hesitated. “Of course I did. He was my student.”

  “Not the kind of relationship I'm asking about.”

  Her cheeks flushed pink. “I think you should go.”

  “I think you should answer the question.”

  She tapped the pen rapidly against the essays, her lips pursed, thinking.

  I waited.

  “Fine,” she finally said. “I tutored him for a short time.”

  “Tutored him,” I repeated.

  “He needed some help with his writing,” she explained. “He came to me and asked if I could help. I told him yes.” She shrugged. “So I tutored him.”

  “An
d what came of that?”

  “His writing improved.”

  “Not what I meant.”

  “Mr. Tyler, I think I've had enough of—”

  “I was able to look at his emails,” I said, interrupting her. “That laptop I looked at? I was able to access his email account.”

  She was no longer tapping the pen, but her hand was shaking and it appeared as if the pen was vibrating in her hand.

  I pointed to the board behind her. “It didn't hit me until I saw that.”

  She turned in her seat. “Saw what?”

  “Your last name,” I told her. “Gonzowski. And your school email. Ms. Z at Seaside.” I paused. “Desmond was corresponding with someone he called Z. I think it was you.”

  The pen was still quivering. She'd turned back toward me, but avoided my eyes. She wasn't moving in the chair. She was rock still.

  “Was something going on between the two of you?” I asked.

  She dropped the pen on the pile of papers and looked at me. “Yes.”

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Christine Gonzowski stood up, closed the door to her room, and walked back to the desk. She sat on the front edge of it, her arms folded, looking as confrontational as I'd seen her thus far.

  Which was saying something.

  “I was tutoring him,” she said. “He came to me and asked for help with his writing. We worked on that for several sessions after school.”

  “When was this?”

  “Year ago,” she answered. “And it...it just became something else.”

  “Right.”

  “He pursued me,” she said, as if that somehow made a difference. “I wasn't ready for it, and I didn't act appropriately.”

  “Okay.”

  Her arms were folded, but it looked to me as if her hands were still shaking. “It happened twice. And I'm not going to turn this into a sordid movie-of-the-week kind of thing. I knew it was wrong and so did he. We talked about it and both realized it had to stop. Which it did. That was it.”