Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
I made two calls from my car. The first was to Gonzo's corporate offices, which were closed for the day. I used voice prompts to get to the staff directory, then left a message for Elspeth, whose last name, I learned, was Wasserman. "I'm hoping we can talk," I told her. "It's important." I gave her my name and phone number and reminded her that we'd met earlier that day. I didn't say anything about Trevor's murder for a number of reasons—one being that it was never a good idea to be recorded asking someone to call you about an ongoing police investigation; another being that if the police hadn't gotten to her yet, I couldn't imagine a worse way to find out about a friend's death than from office voicemail.
Next, I called Lydia Welch. She picked up immediately. "Did you find him?" she said.
"Not yet," I said.
"Well, I'm still glad you called," she said. "Bill wants to meet with you and we both want a full update. Can you come to our place tomorrow, please? I can have our chef prepare a marvelous luncheon."
"Of course," I said. Not that I had any desire to spend more time with Bill Welch than I already had—marvelous luncheon or otherwise. But with Lydia paying what she was, saying no wasn't really an option.
"I'm going to invite Sky Farley as well. You met her today. Isn't she lovely?"
"Yes, I did, and yes, she is."
"Splendid."
"I do have some news," I said.
"Oh, why on earth am I taking up the conversation?"
"Unfortunately, it isn't what you'd call great news."
"Tell me."
"I think you should expect a call from the police."
"Why?"
"A young chemist from the Gonzo lab was shot to death today," I said. "His last text was to Dylan. Apparently, they were supposed to meet?"
"Today?"
"Yes."
"But…But Dylan's been missing for weeks."
"Missing to you," I said. "Missing to his friends. But presumably, hopefully…he's out there somewhere."
"Yes, of course," Lydia said. "I know in my heart that he is. But are you telling me…Do you think…"
"I don't think anything."
"Do the police think my son murdered this person?"
"It's very early stages," I said, staring at my phone. Could be tapped. It's been tapped before. "I can explain more to you in person."
"Oh, God. Dylan is being accused of shooting a man to death. And he's not even around to defend himself."
"He isn't being accused of anything," I said. "The police have an interest in questioning Dylan—and, in his absence, they'll want to speak to you and your husband." The car behind me was driving too close, its halogen lights burning into my rearview. I switched lanes.
"Should I call our lawyer?"
"I don't think it's necessary at this point," I said. "But go ahead and do what makes you feel comfortable."
There was a short stretch of silence. Then Lydia spoke. "It's like that high school party all over again." She said it very quietly—more to herself than to me. She didn't think I knew what she was talking about, but unfortunately I did. I could practically see Dylan writhing on the sidewalk, just as he was six months ago, strung out and bleeding and delirious. Dylan, confessing to me about something that had happened when he was a drunk and horrible teenager. The girl was into it, he had said. She wanted me. She only got weird afterward . I hadn't asked follow-up questions back then and I didn't want to now. My stomach felt sour. I needed to change the subject.
I said, "I gave Dylan's phone to the cops."
"You had Dylan's phone?"
"Yes," I said. "It was in his office. I found it."
"How could that be? He never goes anywhere without that phone."
"Well, he might have had to leave in a hurry—for whatever reason—and forgotten it," I said. "He could have purposely not taken the phone so he wouldn't be traced. Or he could have simply decided to buy a new phone."
"?‘For whatever reason,'?" Lydia said.
"Excuse me?"
"You said he could have left in a hurry for whatever reason. As though…he was being chased. Or someone abducted him. Or…Or…he was off…planning the murder."
"Or he took a spur-of-the-moment vacation or he fell in love and wound up running off with her," I said. "Please, Mrs. Welch. You'll do yourself a huge favor—and me, too—if you don't jump to conclusions."
"Lydia."
"What?"
"Call me Lydia."
God, she's all over the place. "Please, Lydia."
"Thank you."
"Just try and stay with me here, Lydia," I said.
"I'm with you," she said.
"All Dylan did was receive a text. That's it," I said. "That is the only thing that makes him a person of interest."
"I'm calling the lawyer."
"The term person of interest only means that Dylan may have information that could help the investigation."
"That's it?" she said.
"That's it," I said. "It's very different than being named a suspect. There's no proof that Dylan and Trevor ever saw each other."
"What did the text say?"
"It said, ‘Where are you?'?"
"That's damning."
"Not really."
"Did you reply?"
"Yes," I said. "I texted that I had Dylan's phone and that we are looking for him. But I never got a response."
"What time was this?"
"Two-thirty," I said. "The police called around six, telling me the body had been found. I just got through meeting with them."
"What was his name? The chemist?"
"Trevor Weiss," I said.
I could hear Lydia's shaky breathing through my Bluetooth. The halogen lights swung in behind me again. Jesus. Any closer and they would have been inside my car. I opened my window and shouted, "Hey! Anybody ever teach you about boundaries?"
"What?" Lydia said.
"Sorry. I was just talking to another driver."
"Ah." She said it as though she completely understood. I appreciated that.
"Do you know the name at all?" I said. "Trevor Weiss?"
"I…I don't think so," she said.
I reached a traffic light and made a right turn. It wasn't the fastest way home, but it was worth it if I could lose the tailgater.
"I know Dylan didn't spend a lot of time at work," I said. "No reason why he'd know a low-level scientist from Product Development."
"Yes, that's exactly right…" She sounded strange and sort of dreamy. "He didn't spend a lot of time at work."
"Is something wrong?" I said, just as those needlessly bright headlights returned. I sped up, suddenly. The traffic light in the distance felt like a finish line.
"I don't know if this means anything at all," Lydia was saying. "But I just had a memory. Dylan was at our home. He kept taking phone calls, speaking very quietly or moving into another room. It happened several times."
"Uh-huh?" I peered into my rearview, then turned around. Lost him, I thought. Finally.
"I told him he was being rude," she said. "That he shouldn't take phone calls during visits home. But Dylan swore to me he was talking to someone from Gonzo. A research scientist. He said it was an important business matter. I just said, ‘Honestly. How stupid do you think I am?' I love my son, but he wouldn't know an important business matter if it punched him in the nose."
"He never said the research scientist's name?"
"If he did, I don't remember," she said. "I would have bet all my savings at the time that he was lying and it was one of his sleazy drug friends. Whispering the way he was. I actually heard him say…and I quote, ‘What's the point if there's no buzz?' Who says that to a research scientist?"
"How long ago was this?"
"Around a month ago."
The same time he went to urgent care. I saw the headlights again, the car catching up with me. Quickly, I turned around to see its logo glinting in a streetlight. It was a RAV4. A black one. I swore under my breath.
"Pardon?"
"I have to go."
"But…But I have more questions."
"I'll see you and Bill tomorrow for the luncheon. Name the time and give me your address, I'm there."
"All right, then."
I turned around again. The driver clicked on his dome light, for just a few seconds. Long enough for me to see the baseball cap. Then he waved.
Lydia was saying something about whether she should text or email me her address. "Either way," I said. "I'm flexible."
Then I pushed the pedal to the metal.