“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.”
