“Well, he looked a lot strung out when I saw him.”Smelled it, too,I thought. But I didn’t say it.
“He seemed more distracted than anything else,” she said. “And he hadn’t shaved. I asked if he was okay, and he got angry with me. Said it was none of my business.”
I nodded.
“He did say he’d see me soon, though. We have a family brunch at our house the Sunday after Thanksgiving. We prefer it to those big, heavy meals, you know. But that day came and went and Dylan never showed.”
“Did he call?”
“He texted Bill.”
“What did the text say?”
“ ‘Something came up. Sorry.’ ”
“That was it?” I said. “The whole text?”
“There was an exclamation point aftersorry.”
“Did you find it strange that he would text Bill and not you?”
“My son texts his father,” she said, “when he’s trying to avoid having a meaningful conversation.”
“And no word from him since then?”
She shook her head.
“I’m assuming you’ve checked with the rehabs.”
“Yes,” she said. “Hospitals, too. I check every morning, first thing.”
“Okay. I’m going to need a list of friends, relatives. Work associates. Girlfriends, ex-girlfriends. Enemies. Of course, I’llneed all of Dylan’s info, too. His home address. If it’s a condo or apartment, I’ll need the name and number of the manager if you have it.”
“This means you’re taking the case, yes?”
I rested a hand on the piece of stationery and snuck another look at the number. I needed to make sure it was real. “I’m taking the case.” I said it firmly.
She unfastened the Birkin bag again and produced a manila folder, which she handed to me. It saidDylanon the cover in block letters, and when I opened it up, there was everything I asked for: Lydia’s son’s info, followed by three printed pages of names, most of them accompanied by phone numbers, emails, and “relation.”
“You came prepared for me to say yes,” I said.
She extended a manicured hand. I shook it.
“Everyone says yes to me, Sunny,” Lydia said. “And so I’m always prepared.”
Four
“So Lydia Welch made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.” Spike was doing his bestGodfatherimpersonation, which, if I was going to be honest, was not all that great.
“I saved the piece of paper she wrote it on,” I said. “I may have it framed.”
“Oooh, let me see.”
We were having lunch at his restaurant, Spike’s—something we did a lot on workdays. I slipped the ivory stationery out of my purse and placed it on the table face up.
Spike read the number. He let out a whistle.
I quickly put it back in my purse. “Right?”
