Thread of Truth

by Jeff Shelby

  She turned back to the sofa. “This is Olivia. And that's Thomas in her lap.”

  Olivia held up a hand and gave me a tired smile. “Hello.”

  “Hi Olivia,” I said, smiling back at her. “Thanks for letting me come over.”

  She nodded and looked down at her son.

  “Have a seat,” Sharon said, gesturing at the sofa across from the one she and her daughter were occupying.

  I sat down and Bill joined them on their sofa. A coffee table covered in parts of today’s paper and various baby supplies – a pacifier, a burp rag, a spare diaper, a tube of ointment – divided us.

  “We were trying to get Thomas to nap before you arrived, but he's not cooperating,” Sharon informed me. She glanced at her infant grandson. “So we'll apologize in advance.”

  “No need,” I said. “My daughter's about to graduate from college. Time has flown by and I wouldn't mind her being that little again.”

  “It goes fast, doesn't it?” Sharon said.

  “Really does.”

  “So,” Bill Cousins said, clearing his throat. “How can we help you?”

  “I'm not sure that you can,” I told him. “I was just hoping to ask Olivia a few questions about Desmond and the last time she spoke with him.”

  He gave me a curt nod and gestured toward his daughter, as if I should get on with it.

  “I haven't talked to him,” Olivia said. Her green eyes were the same color as her mother's. “I swear.”

  I smiled at her. “I believe you.”

  She glanced down at the baby. He was resting in her lap, wrapped in a light blue blanket. His hand had escaped the blanket and was balled into a tiny fist.

  “When did you last talk to him?” I asked.

  She thought for a moment. “It was right before I went into labor. He'd been here at the house and he was going to text me when he got home. But he didn't.”

  “Do you remember the exact date?”

  She thought and then gave me a date that lined up with the Lockers told me.

  “And you never heard from him again?”

  She shook her head. “No. And it makes no sense. It really doesn't.”

  “How so?”

  The baby made a noise and she readjusted him in her lap. For a new mother, she seemed remarkably at ease with him. “Because he wouldn't have missed Thomas being born. There's no way. He was as excited as I was. Maybe more.”

  Bill made a face and shifted on the couch, but didn't say anything.

  Olivia caught him. She frowned. “I offered to go meet him so you wouldn't have to be here.”

  “I know you did,” he said. “I recall very clearly. And I told you that if you were going to talk to anyone about Desmond, I wanted to be there.” He glanced at me. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” I said. “I would've done the same.”

  He looked away.

  “He got a new car and he doesn't want me to drive it,” Olivia said, shaking her head.

  “You just had a baby, honey,” her mother said, touching her shoulder. “Everything in good time.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes.

  “So he was excited about the baby?” I asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  “Yes,” she said, looking down at Thomas. “He really was. We had fun deciding on names. We went shopping, and he wanted to buy everything he saw. I had to hold him back.”

  “You know, he might've been faking that, Olivia,” Bill said.

  She rolled her eyes again, but this time it was accompanied by a long, drawn-out sigh. I’d been the recipient of several of those when Elizabeth was her age.

  I looked at Bill. “I take it you had your doubts?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  He grunted. “Because he was a teenager who got my daughter pregnant after spending some time in jail. Call me crazy.”

  Olivia's face reddened. “Jesus, Dad.”

  “Did I say anything that wasn't true?” he asked.

  Olivia studied her newborn son. “It wasn't jail.”

  Bill waved a hand in the air. “Semantics.”

  Sharon put her hand on her husband's thigh. “Let's just try to help Mr. Tyler, shall we?”

  “What do you think I'm doing?” he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. Then he sighed. “I'm sorry. All of this has been...incredibly trying.” He was speaking directly to me. “I don't mean to be rude.”

  “I understand,” I told him. “No need to apologize.” I paused. “And I'm just going to be direct here. I get the sense you think he has run away. Is that accurate?”

  His eyes widened and he nodded, as if that was an obvious conclusion.

  I looked at Olivia. “So Desmond wasn't having any issues before he disappeared?”

  She shook her head. “No. Nothing.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know what you're asking me. He wasn't drinking. He wasn't smoking. He wasn't hanging out with his old friends. He was spending time with me, at home, and at work. That was it. His grades were better than mine. He was helping me in my classes. I was missing a ton because of the pregnancy and he was helping me.” Her chin tilted, and if she hadn’t been holding the baby, I was pretty sure she would have folded her arms and puffed out her chest. “There was nothing going on. I would've known.”

  I said nothing.

  She looked down at her son again. “He really wanted this baby. He wanted to be a father.” She swallowed hard and blinked several times. “We were making plans to get married and move in together.”

  Bill shook his head and looked away, but not before I saw his look of disgust.

  Sharon gave me a tight smile, trying her best to appear neutral.

  I didn't envy her because it appeared she had taken on the role of peacemaker in the house.

  “When you say he was excited to be a father, can you give me an example?” I asked.

  She laughed, shook her head, and wiped at her eyes. “Sure.”

  I waited.

  “I didn't want the baby,” she said. “Desmond did.”

  SIX

  Both Bill and Sharon seemed less than enthused about the direction their daughter was moving the conversation. Bill folded his arms across his chest and Sharon shifted her hands to her lap.

  If Olivia cared, though, she didn't show it.

  “I didn't want it,” she said. “I mean, I'm a senior in high school. I wanted to go to college. I don't know how to be a parent.” She glanced down at the baby in her lap. “I still don't know how.” Her voice was soft, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “I knew something was wrong with me. I was late. I felt sick. I had no idea what was wrong. Then it sort of hit me.” She put her index finger on the baby's fist and he reflexively reached for it. The tiny fingers gripped hers and she smiled. “I went to the store and bought a pregnancy test. It said I was pregnant. So then I went and bought two more.” She laughed at herself. “As if I might find one that disagreed with the others. But they didn't. They all confirmed I was the stupidest person alive.”

  “You're not the stupidest person alive, Olivia,” her mother said, putting her hand on her daughter's shoulder again.

  “Felt like it,” she said. “So I had to figure out what to do. I told Desmond first. I figured he'd be just as freaked out as I was. But he wasn't. Like, not at all.”

  “So he was supportive from the beginning?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah, totally,” she said. “We went to get something to eat after school. I was super nervous to tell him. I didn't want him to hate me. He realized I wasn't eating my sandwich and he asked me what was wrong. And I just blurted it out. He stared at me like he didn't understand, so I said it again.” She went quiet for a minute, and her gaze shifted to the ceiling, as if she were conjuring the memory in her mind. “And he just had this massive smile on his face and said 'we're really going to have a baby?' And then I said I didn’t know. He couldn't figure out what there was to know. So I told him I didn't think I was ready to be a
parent and all that.”

  “So he pressured you into having the baby.” Bill grunted. “That sounds about right.”

  “No. He did not.” Olivia’s voice was sharp. “I'm capable of making decisions for myself, in case you didn't know.”

  Her father frowned and looked away.

  “What changed your mind then?” I asked.

  She thought for a moment. “I think it was a lot of things. One, the fact that Desmond wanted the baby was a surprise, so I realized I wouldn't be alone if I had it.”

  “You wouldn't have been alone,” Sharon said quietly.

  Olivia gave a quick glance to her mother and shrugged. “I don't know. I was pretty afraid, and I just thought the easiest thing would be to not have it. But then Desmond got excited, he reacted differently, and...I don't know.” She looked at me. “It just changed for me. We started making plans. And then it was like I couldn't imagine not having it.” She looked down at the little boy in her lap. “Him.”

  “When you say you started making plans, can you give me examples?” I asked. “What exactly did you do?”

  “Well, it was really Desmond more than me,” she explained. “He just sort of took over.”

  Her father made some sort of noise, halfway between a grunt and a sigh.

  “Not in a bad way,” Olivia clarified. “He just...he just got serious about it. He asked for more hours at work so he could make more money. He bought a whole bunch of stuff for the baby.” She pointed over my shoulder. “He bought all of that.”

  I turned around. There was an infant swing tucked in the corner of the room. Nearby was a car seat, and next to that was a white wooden crate full of what looked like toys.

  “He bought a ton of stuff,” she continued. “Diapers, clothes. We spent one night making a list and he bought it all. He wasn't spending money on anything else. Then he told me about the apartments.”

  “The apartments?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. He'd filled out a couple of applications at different apartments. So we could move in together. He'd even opened up a savings account so he would have a little money to pay for a wedding.” Her eyes misted a little and she blinked rapidly. She drew in a deep breath and held it for a minute. “But he had it all laid out,” she finally said. She looked down at the baby. “So he wouldn't have just taken off. He just wouldn't have.”

  Sharon patted her daughter’s shoulder again.

  Bill looked like he'd just sat on a nail.

  I studied him. “You seem like you don't buy any of this.”

  Bill frowned and, instead of answering verbally, responded with a shrug.

  “Is there a particular reason?” I asked. “Was your relationship with him not good?”

  “My relationship with him was fine until he got my daughter pregnant,” he answered.

  Olivia’s arms tightened a little around the baby but she said nothing.

  He leaned forward. “Look, Desmond isn't a bad kid. He's had his issues and I was willing to overlook those. But they are too young to have a baby.”

  “We already did,” Olivia snapped.

  “I didn't agree with their decision and I haven't hid that.” A muscle in his temple twitched. “But this...this just feels too coincidental to me.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  He bit his cheek. “He puts on a big show of being excited about the baby. He says all of the right things to Olivia. Always saying the right things.” His lip curled. “But then when it's put up or shut up time, he just disappears?”

  “Dad.” The warning in Olivia’s voice was unmistakable.

  “Come on. He's a kid who got scared. And ran.” Bill’s laugh was bitter.

  “You don’t know that!” Olivia shot her father an accusatory glance. “You don’t know anything!”

  “I know enough,” he said gruffly. “ And I know his history definitely isn't helping him here. At all.”

  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 m
inutes 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 see how his line of work could be lucrative. “I don't want to keep you,” I said, knowing his time was probably more valuable than mine. I cut to the chase. “What can you tell me about Desmond Locker?”

  He pushed the brim of his hat upward. “Des. Pretty good kid. Worked hard. Don't think the kid ever missed a shift. Think he worked for me for about a year?” He rubbed his mustache. “You looking for him?”