by Jeff Shelby
“His parents hired me.”
He nodded. “Yeah, they called me. His mom seemed pretty worried. I didn't have much to tell her.”
“But he was a good worker?”
“Sure,” Zavalla said. “I mean, most of my guys are Mexican. They're used to doing this kind of work, you know what I mean? Des, man, though, he didn't care. He just worked. I'd hired a couple of white kids before and they couldn't cut it. He was the first one. We talked a bit about when he finished school, and having him come on full-time. I couldn't promise him anything, but he was asking.”
I nodded. “His girlfriend told me he asked for more hours from you?”
Zavalla nodded. “He did, but I didn't have any to give him.”
“You didn't?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nah. I mean, I put him on our sub list. It's a list we use when anyone calls in sick and they can call guys on the sub list to take their place. But my guys hardly ever call in sick, you know?” He glanced toward his guys. “They know they can be replaced, so they show up. If they don't, they know they probably won't have a spot on the crew the next time.”
“That works okay for you?” I asked.
“It's the business,” he said. “It's how it goes. Most of these guys, I'm paying them cash on Fridays.” He shrugged. “That's the business.”
“So some things change, but not everything,” I said.
He frowned. “It's the business. These guys need money and so do I. But if I start asking too many questions, guess what? They aren't going to be able to work for me because I guarantee they don't have the papers for me to cut them a paycheck.”
I wasn't sure I agreed, but I wasn't there to argue best practices with him. “So Desmond wanted more hours, but you weren't able to give him any?”
Zavalla squinted into the sunshine. “Nope. And, honestly? Was more expensive to keep him on because he did get a paycheck.”
I watched the mower do a pivot turn on the grass. The driver hopped out of the seat to check the area he'd just cut, bending down and running his hand across the surface of the grass. He gave a thumbs up to the other mower, hopped back into his seat, and kept going.
“Can I ask what he was making?” I asked.
“You can ask, but I'm not answering,” Zavalla said. “It's my business what I'm paying my guys and I don't need anyone undercutting me. Not saying that's what you're here for, but that's my business.”
“Ballpark?”
He squinted at me. “Why?”
“Just trying to fill in some blanks.”
Zavalla shrugged. “More than minimum.”
That wasn't much help at all and I could sense he was growing tired of me.
“You knew his girlfriend was pregnant?” I asked.
“He told me. Said that's why he needed more hours. Told him all these guys got kids, too. Not my issue.”
“Why did you hire him in the first place?” I asked. “You don't really seem the type to cut anyone a break?”
I meant it as a dig, but Zavalla smiled and slipped his sunglasses back on. “Caught me on the right day. Someone didn't show.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I gotta go.”
I headed back to my car. I sat behind the wheel for a moment, watching Zavalla and his men work the grounds. I wondered what Desmond did when he was with them. Did he ride the mowers? Work the edgers? Was he one of the guys blowing grass clippings and doing cleanup?
I didn’t know.
Just like I didn’t know why he lied to Olivia and his parents about working more hours.
I wondered why he would lie about something like that.
And I wondered where he got all of the money to buy the things for his new baby.
NINE
Fog was hovering over Coronado the next morning. My early run was damp and I could barely see the water as I trudged up and down the hard-packed sand. The red roofs of the Hotel Del jutted out of the mist, but the rest of the hotel was barely visible. I made the U-turn at the hotel and forced myself to go harder back to the house.
I showered, dressed, and ate breakfast when I got back, still thinking about how Desmond might've been earning extra cash and why he'd been lying to his family and to Olivia. I thought about calling his parents to tell them what I'd learned, but I wanted to do a couple more things before I delivered the news.
One of those was retracing the route he took from Olivia's house back to his own home. The Lockers told me that he rode it nearly every day. I knew the road but I wanted to take a closer look to see if there were places he might've stopped or if anyone might have seen him.
I made it from Coronado to La Jolla in about half an hour and drove straight to Olivia Cousins' house. Her driveway was empty when I got there and the neighborhood was quiet. I realized I didn’t know what her parents did for a living, and if Olivia was staying at home alone with the baby during the day. Had she planned to be in an apartment with Desmond by now?
I thought about these things as I drove up the street to the main road, then found the bike path running parallel to it and headed north toward Del Mar and Desmond’s home.
The path stayed pretty true to the road, running parallel through UCSD and then onto Torrey Pines Road. It was a straight shot through the high-tech pharma labs that occupied the land across from the Inn at Torrey Pines and the world famous golf course. Runners and bikers alike shared the path as I drove, most of it shaded by the giant eucalyptus trees. I was sure that Elizabeth had run on the path, given how close it was to her school. I didn’t know what her class schedule was like but I imagined she was somewhere on campus, either in a classroom or at the library or grabbing a coffee with her friends. The image of her doing those things – normal thing any college kid might be doing – made me smile.
The run of pharmaceutical labs ended, giving way to brush and the Torrey pine trees that the area was named after. The road curved downward and to the left, toward the state beach and to the ocean. The open swampland created a canyon-like feeling off to the right. The path hugged the road as it descended and flattened out, the path on the right of the road, the Pacific Ocean on the left.
I drove past the beach and up the hill into Del Mar, taking the turn into Desmond's neighborhood, and then stopped in front of his house.
There were multiple office buildings along the route, but I couldn't imagine why he would've had cause to go into any of them. They also weren't places to hide. They had people coming in and out of them on a regular basis and most of them would've been tight on security. He wouldn't have been able to walk right in.
I grabbed my phone off the seat, found the number for the Inn at Torrey Pines, and dialed the number. I reached the front desk and asked for Desmond Locker's room. The man on the other end of the line told me they did not have a guest by that name registered. I thanked him and hung up.
The car idled for a moment while I thought.
Then I made a U-turn and drove the route back to Olivia's house and made another U-turn.
I'd been looking at places Desmond might've purposefully gone.
But was there anywhere he might've gone not by choice?
I drove out of Olivia's neighborhood for the second time, paying closer attention to the road and the path rather than the businesses and homes. I watched other bikers as they pedaled by, seeing if there was any part of the path that gave them trouble or if the path itself moved in any unusual direction. I passed the laboratories for a second time, noting that even most of the parking lots were gated. The likelihood of Desmond having gone into one of those labs seemed slim.
The buildings gave way again to the brush and eucalyptus trees as I started the descent down toward the state beach. The bike path curved with the road and I realized there was no guardrail on the far side of the path as the area opened up. I slowed my speed as I descended the curve. The drop-off wasn't steep down to the swamp area until the guardrail reappeared. It would've been hard to leave the path with the rail there.
I reach
ed the bottom of the road and made another U-turn at the entrance to the state beach. I drove south on the road and went back up the hill, the cliffs of the park high above me on my right. When I reached the laboratories, I doubled back again to the north, then parked on the road after I passed the last laboratory.
The breeze was coming up the hill from the ocean and the giant eucalyptus trees swayed above me as I walked on the far right side of the path. Several bikers nodded at me as they passed in the opposite direction, and a steady stream of runners dodged me as they headed north.
According to his parents, Desmond rode the path nearly every day on his bike. He knew the route and liked it. He regularly traveled to and from Olivia's house, despite the hill he had to climb to get there. So it wasn't like the road would've been unfamiliar to him.
As I got to the first curve, the brush to my right got thicker. There was a long plateau that slanted downward, but not at an urgent angle. Eventually, you'd reach the end of it, which would've dropped down into the river valley below it, but it would've taken a long ride to reach that end.
But there was no guardrail there, and the bushes near the path were taller.
I stepped off the path and onto the dirt. The gravel and sand made walking a bit treacherous and I moved carefully through the scrub brush and bushes. I was maybe two hundred feet in when I saw the bike.
It was on its side, the back wheel with a pretty good dent it. Two of the spokes were broken and hanging loosely. The tire and inner tube had come loose from the wheel and were lying limply next to it, trapped by the frame.
Three feet in front of the bike, Desmond Locker lay on the ground. His body was twisted in an abnormal way, his face and torso facing the ground, his hips and legs twisted upward. Dried leaves littered his dark hair. A backpack was still strapped to his back.
I pulled out my phone.
I didn't need to get any closer to see that Desmond Locker was dead.
TEN
I stood by the side of the road as police worked the scene and the medical examiner worked on the body of Desmond Locker.
I'd immediately backed out of the brush, moving slowly so as to disturb as little as possible, then called 9-1-1 from the road. It had taken less than three minutes for the first officer to arrive and within 45 minutes, the area had been shut down and taped off.
I gave my statement to an officer and indicated that the family had hired me to find Desmond. He seemed less concerned with that and more focused on how I'd located him. I ran down my morning interviews, then explained why I'd gone into the brush.
Twice.
The officer seemed less than satisfied with my answers but told me to hang around until one of the detectives could talk with me.
About half an hour after that, a woman in a black pantsuit and sunglasses on her head eyed me for a moment, then headed in my direction.
“You're the one that found him?” she asked.
I nodded.
She looked at the small notepad in her hand. “Tyler? Private?”
“I'm not licensed,” I said. “Family hired me to look for their son. I've done this kind of thing before. Used to be a police officer on Coronado.”
“Got it. I'm Detective Swanson.” Her hair was nearly as dark as her suit and it was pulled back into a tight, single braid. “You're the guy with the daughter.”
I shrugged, then nodded. “I have a daughter, yes. I found her after she was abducted, if that's what you're referring to.”
“I am,” she said. “Okay. Can you run it back for me? How you found the body?”
I told her the same thing I'd told the responding officer. She listened closely, making a couple of notes on her notepad. Her eyes moved between me and the scene in the bushes.
“So he rode here regularly?” she asked when I finished.
“That's my understanding, yes.”
“The family hadn't gone looking for him?”
“They had,” I told her. “And they did report him missing to local police.”
She read me well. “And?”
“And they didn't feel like they were getting much help from them. Kid had a record, but he'd cleaned himself up. Parents felt like they buried it.” I shrugged. “Not saying it's true. Just telling you what was relayed to me.”
“Sure,” she said. She glanced toward the bushes. “My guys are saying it looks like hit and run.”
I looked over toward the bushes and then nodded. “Okay.”
She eyed me carefully. “You don't agree?”
“Not my job to agree or disagree.”
“But?”
I motioned toward the bike. “Did you get a look at the back tire?”
She looked toward the people working around Desmond's body. “I saw it.”
“Bent up pretty good.”
She looked at me. “So?”
“Hit and run, I'd think maybe he would have been hit from the side,” I explained. “Or maybe bumped from behind. Right?”
She was quiet for a minute. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Tire doesn't get bent from something like that,” I said.
“That’s a big pretty big leap.” Her voice was cool. “You ever see a car bumper after a low-impact fender bender?”
I turned to the road, ignoring her comment. “And they would've had to come onto the path to hit him. Not like he was sharing the road.”
She glanced at the road, too. “Cars go off the road all the time, Usually because people are on their phones and not paying attention.” She let out an irritated sigh. “Happens way too much.”
“Yeah, and then they usually over correct, right?” I said. “They realize what's happening and go opposite.” I looked toward Desmond. “That tire doesn't happen if that's what occurred.”
She pursed her lips. “Look, there are a lot of variables here. Speed of the car. Type of vehicle. Where the kid was on the path.”
“Absolutely,” I said. I pointed toward the road. “I did a quick look for skid marks. Didn't see any.”
“We'll check.” She tucked the notebook and pen into her pocket and then looked at me. Her expression was critical. “So what do you think happened then?”
“I don't know what happened,” I told her. “That tire looks off to me, though.”
“You a bike tech?”
“No.”
“You ever do accident recreation when you were in Coronado?”
“Simple traffic stuff.”
“That’s what I thought.” She nodded, satisfied that she'd made her point. “Okay. I'll take a look. But this stuff happens on this road quite a bit. Not making light of it, but just saying.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
I wasn't going to start an argument with her, but the tire really had stood out to me when I backed out of the bushes. It was bent and smashed in, and seemed like it had been hit harder than just someone unintentionally grazing the bike.
But Swanson was right. There were other variables.
One thing that wasn’t up for debate was the fact that Desmond Locker was dead.
“Have you notified the family?” Swanson asked, as if she had been able to see exactly what I was thinking.
“Not yet,” I told her. “Called you guys first.”
She pulled out her phone. “Can I get contact info for them?”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and gave her Desmond's parent's names and phone number. She tapped them into her phone. The medical examiner's vehicle was backing up onto the bike path. They'd laid a white blanket over Desmond's body.
“Thanks,” she said. “I'm going to call them and let them know.”
I nodded.
She looked away for a moment. “Didn't mean to be rude about your daughter.”
“It's fine.”
“I just read a lot about that after it happened,” Swanson said. “And about your wife after.”
I looked away. “Yeah. You need me anymore?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, we'
re good. If I need to follow up, I'll find you.”
I nodded, thanked her, and headed for my car, wondering how the Lockers were going to respond to hearing that their son was dead.
ELEVEN
I didn't have to wait long to find out.
I was at a gas station getting gas for my car and coffee for my stomach when my phone buzzed. It hadn't even been thirty minutes since I'd left the accident scene and Tom Locker was asking if I could come to the house. I finished fueling up the car, stuck the coffee in the drink holder, and headed to their home.
Tom greeted me at the door with a handshake and a grim expression. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course,” I said. “I assume you got the phone call.”
“We did.”
“I'm sorry,” I said.
He nodded, his lips pinched tight, and led me to the living room.
Alice Locker was perched on a corner of the sofa, hugging her knees, her chin resting on her knees. Her eyes were red and a box of tissue was next to the sofa below her. She tried to smile when she saw me, but her lips trembled and fresh tears filled her eyes.
“I'm very sorry,” I said to her.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Tom gestured toward the sofa across from the one Alice was sitting on. I took a seat. He sat down next to his wife, placing his hand on one of her knees. Tears slid down her cheeks and she put both of her hands on top of his, as if trying to find something to cling to.
Tom cleared his throat. “So. I...can you...”
“I retraced the route,” I told him, saving him the trouble of trying to get the question out. “I worked my way up Torrey Pines Road, then went back and did it again on foot. I walked the path and I was checking the brush. There were a couple of areas where I thought it was possible that a bike might've gone off. I checked them. I found Desmond in one of them.” I paused. “I can give you more details about what I saw, but I'm not sure that it will help.”
“Had he been there long?” Tom asked.
“Impossible for me to say,” I told him. “I'm sure the investigators will have more information about that.”