Chapter Seventeen

Seventeen

Trevor "The Chemist" Weiss was not a drug dealer. He was an actual chemist, who, until this afternoon, had worked in product development—i.e., the lab—at Gonzo's manufacturing plant. According to Lee Farrell, who, at this point, had only Trevor's phone, a lanyard taken from his desk drawer, and the driver's license found in his pocket to go on, Trevor Weiss was even younger than Dylan and Sky. A kid, really. And so, as I stood next to Lee in the basement level of the Gonzo factory, gazing down at Trevor's lifeless body, which lay between two enormous mixing tanks, blood pooling beneath, I was moved by the cruelty of it all, the waste of a life that had barely begun. He'd been shot through the heart at close range. According to one of the techs from the medical examiner's office—a woman named Giselle who was now bagging Trevor's hands—he'd probably died instantly. No pain. Most likely, he hadn't even been afforded enough time to be surprised.

This was not a place where anyone would expect to find Trevor Weiss, dead or alive. He worked in the testing labs, which were three floors up from where we were now. And besides that, as Sky had told me earlier today, the factory was closed for the month of December. Had Trevor Weiss really come down here to meet Dylan—and if so, why? I said all that to Lee, but it was more intended for myself. Thinking out loud, as it were.

"I'm not sure on the why," Lee said. "But an empty factory is as good a place to meet as any if you need privacy. Plus, Dylan Welch and Trevor Weiss presumably had access to the key codes, so they could get in without setting off alarms."

"True…"

I thought about my own run-in with Dylan six months earlier—how wasted he'd been at the time, sweating, shaking. Off-the-rails paranoid to the point of delusion. I remembered how he'd held a gun on me. And how, though I'd been relatively certain he didn't know how to shoot it, I'd been equally sure that he was willing to try.

"It's a good, quiet place to kill somebody, if that's what you're looking to do," Lee said.

"Yes," I said noncommittally.

Lee was looking at me in a way I didn't like—as though there was something important I wasn't telling him, which was, in fact, true. But Lydia Welch had specifically said she didn't want the police involved. And though it appeared that she'd soon have no choice in the matter, I owed it to my employer to let her know about Trevor Weiss's death before Lee learned (which he would, with or without my firsthand information) that Dylan Welch definitely had access to a gun.

"Dylan has been missing for two weeks," I tried. "Wherever he is, he doesn't have his phone on him. I find it hard to believe he'd rematerialize just to meet some random lab tech from his own company…"

"And kill him," Lee said.

"Yes," I said.

"Unless that lab tech had something on him," Lee said. "Something that might have scared him into disappearing for two weeks."

I swallowed hard. Lee was making a little too much sense. "Who found the body?"

Lee gestured at a middle-aged man standing about twenty feet away from us, talking to two uniforms. "He didn't know either one of them," Lee said.

"Who is he?"

"Ted Blankenship. Works on the assembly line," Lee said. "Apparently, he'd been down with the flu since December first, and so he wasn't able to clear out his locker for the month. He felt better today, and showed up at around six to get his stuff. He saw the blood first. Thought it was leakage from one of the tanks, so he went to investigate. That's when he came across the body."

"Allegedly," I said.

"Allegedly," he said.

"He could be a suspect."

"Yes. But Ted Blankenship has never met Trevor Weiss."

"Allegedly."

Lee gave me flat eyes. "He seems legitimately shocked," he said. "I don't make him as our killer."

I took a closer look at Ted Blankenship. He held a white handkerchief to his forehead that was roughly the same color as his skin. One of the uniforms was handing him a tarp to put around his shoulders because he was shivering, visibly—even from this distance. And from what I could see of his face, You look like you've just seen a ghost would have been the obvious conversation starter. "I get what you mean."

"Shitty way to start a vacation," Lee said. "Of course, if it wasn't for Ted Blankenship, he and all his coworkers would have been greeted with an even worse sight the day after New Year's."

I nodded.

"You ever meet Dylan Welch?" Lee asked.

"Once."

"What did you think of him?"

"Not much."

"But now you're working for his parents, trying to find him."

"His mother," I said. "Yes."

"Why?"

"She's paying me a small fortune," I said. "And it just so happens that at this point in my life, I could really use a small fortune."

"Any reason why his mother hasn't called the police?"

I cleared my throat. "Come on, Lee. Dylan Welch is a grown man and not what you'd call reliable. He disappears all the time—goes on benders, winds up in rehab…You guys wouldn't want to pour your limited resources into finding somebody like that."

He nodded. "You've got a point," he said. "You have his phone?"

I started to hand it to him, then stopped. "Can you keep in touch?" I said. "Tell me anything you find out about Trevor Weiss?"

"Such as…"

"Well, he's young. Smart. Works at Gonzo, but in the lab. And in an entry-level job—not management."

"Yes."

"I just can't imagine him being somebody Dylan Welch would know, let alone arrange to meet in private with." Unless he was dealing drugs on the down-low . Or dating a girl that Dylan was stalking.

"I called his supervisor, who's on his way. We have his laptop. His phone. We'll find out who Trevor Weiss really was. Who he was associating with and why. And we'll find out why his last text was to someone whose family regards him as a missing person."

"So that's what I'd like to know."

"I'll tell you what I can."

"Speaking of his phone," I said. "I'm assuming there aren't any messages from Dylan on it."

"Just the one you sent."

"Don't you find that weird?"

"I find everything about this weird."

"Yeah, but this especially," I said. "Dylan and Trevor obviously had a plan to meet. Trevor showed up and texted Dylan, asking where he was."

"Yep."

"But where are the texts or phone calls where they made the plan in the first place?" I said. "What did they do, pass notes?"

"Good question," Lee said. "Of course, we'll contact his phone company. Recover any deleted texts, voicemails, records of calls."

"And…"

"I'll let you know if we find out anything."

"Thank you," I said.

"Within reason," he said.

"Of course."

He locked his gaze with mine. "I presume you'll do the same."

I picked at a fingernail. "Don't I always?"

"You tell me, Sunny," he said.

"I do," I said. "Within reason."

I handed him the phone and he dropped it into a bag. "For what it's worth," I said, "I don't think Dylan would have shot Trevor Weiss. Not like this."

"Like what?"

"Skillfully. At close range. Without hesitation."

"Any reason why you believe that?"

I shook my head, forcing the image out of my mind: strung-out Dylan Welch, his face gleaming with sweat, the gun held in his trembling hand. "Just a feeling," I said.

"We don't put a lot of stock in feelings," Lee said.

"I know," I said. "But my feelings are more reliable than most."

He smiled. "Good luck with this job, Sunny," he said.

"Thanks," I said. "I'll need it."

We said our goodbyes, and I left the factory feeling more in the dark than ever. Did Dylan really shoot Trevor? Or did someone shoot both of them, and his lifeless body simply hadn't been found? For Dylan's mother's sake, I hoped neither possibility panned out. Dylan's mother, whom I definitely needed to call.

On my way out, I nearly bumped into a worried-looking middle-aged man. He wore baggy gray sweats and a misbuttoned wool overcoat, clearly thrown on in a hurry. He was my height and bald, with embryological features and huge, pale eyes like a baby's. He stuck out his hand. It was trembling. "Rand Carlson," he said. "I was asked to answer questions about Trevor Weiss?"

"Are you his supervisor?"

"I run the lab here," he said. "Trevor required very little supervision." He gave me a nervous smile. I nodded politely but didn't smile back. It was clear he thought I was a cop, and I saw no reason to relieve him of that notion.

"Did you ever see Trevor with Dylan Welch?" I asked.

"The CEO?"

"Yes."

"No," he said. "But that doesn't mean much."

"Why not?"

"I only saw Trevor within the confines of this factory," he said. "We're not social here like they are in corporate."

"Sure."

"And as you might guess if you've met him, Dylan Welch has never visited our lab."

"Not even once?"

"Well, he was here when we cut the ribbon on the factory," Rand Carlson said. "But by and large, Mr. Welch isn't the kind of person who likes seeing how the sausage gets made, so to speak."

"He's not a scientist," I said.

"Correct," he said.

"Not much of a CEO, either?"

"That's a matter of opinion," he said. "I think he's more of a…delegator." He seemed pleased with himself for finding the right word.

"How about Trevor?" I said. "Anything unusual about his behavior lately?"

"Unusual?"

"Did he seem tense or agitated during those weeks before vacation? Was he on his phone more than is typical? Eating less? Performing at a lower level? Or maybe it was the opposite and he was spending more hours at the office than usual?"

Carlson bit his lip, those eyes widening more than I'd thought possible. His mouth grew tiny and his skin flushed—his infantile face conquered by a dawning idea.

"What is it?"

"Just what you said about spending time at the office," he said.

"Yes?"

"Four or five months ago, corporate wanted to brainstorm new ways to change the formula," he said. "The COO asked for my best and brightest, and Trevor is young and brilliant—graduated MIT at just nineteen. I sent him over. God, I mean to say he was young and brilliant. I can't believe he's…"

"How did he seem to feel about that? Being sent over to corporate?"

"Happy. Excited," he said. "At least at first he was."

"And then?"

"Then, maybe…I don't know. Tired, I suppose. A little on edge. Those business and marketing people can be very draining. We're pretty much all introverts. They're the opposite. I think he was glad to come back to the lab."

"So you're telling me that, even though you've never seen Dylan Welch within the confines of your office, Trevor potentially had ample time to meet Dylan and get to know him."

"Yes, yes!" He grinned, his face brightening as though he'd just discovered we spoke the same language. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."

I nodded. "Trevor never mentioned Dylan, though."

"No."

"You never knew about Trevor making plans with Dylan Welch, attending a party he threw, et cetera."

"No, but also, now that you mention it, I did see him on his own phone a lot. He was leaving the lab to take calls. He'd go to the stairwell. It got to a point where I reprimanded him for it once. Which is something, for Trevor. Like I said…"

"He was your best and brightest."

"Yes," he said. "My God…" He swallowed hard, his thin neck moving visibly. "Trevor's gone. He's…I'm sorry. I just can't believe this happened."

"That's okay," I said. "Take a deep breath."

He did. Then he took another. "Thank you," he said. "That helps." He swatted at his dry eyes, as though he was preemptively wiping tears away.

I waited for him to either stop doing that or actually cry. He did neither. It didn't faze me. Everyone experienced shock in different ways, and some people weren't criers. Especially men in clinical professions. He covered his face with both hands and took several more deep breaths until finally he was able to compose himself.

"Who did you think the calls were from?" I asked.

"At the time, I assumed it was the receptionist. Elspeth," he said. "She picked Trevor up a few times after work. I…I think he was sweet on her. Do you know who she is?"

"I do," I said.

"Nice girl," he said.

"What about now?"

"Pardon?"

"You said ‘at the time' you thought it was Elspeth calling. Have you changed your mind now?"

"Well, you know what they say about hindsight," he said.

"I do," I said again.

Carlson rubbed his chin, his big babyish eyes staring off into the distance. "Looking back on his demeanor during those calls," he said, "he didn't seem like he was talking to a young lady."

"How so?"

"He seemed intense," he said, "you know…serious…like what he'd just been discussing was important."

"You don't think a call with a young lady could be important?"

He sighed heavily. "Come on," he said. "You know what I mean."

"I do."

His cheeks flushed.

I crossed my hands over my chest. "Thank you, Mr. Carlson," I said. "You've been very helpful."

"Is there anything else you need," he said, "or can I leave?"

"Well, I'm sure the police will want to talk to you. They're all inside the factory. Lee Farrell is the detective in charge."

His face fell. "Wait, you aren't the police?"

"Nope."

"Shouldn't you have told me that?"

I'd already started toward my car, but I turned around and smiled warmly. "Shouldn't you have asked?"