“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?”
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.
