“Well, the ME estimated that when she was found as a Jane Doe, she’d been dead for less than twenty-four hours,” he said. “And that was a week before Thanksgiving.”
I didn’t say anything for a long while. It wasn’t until Lee asked me if I was still there and the breath exited my lungs in a whoosh that I realized I’d stopped breathing.
“That’s it,” I said, those texts on Dylan’s phone blazing through my brain:MURDERER, MURDERER, MURDERER…All dated around Thanksgiving, when Dylan left his phone in his messy desk drawer—and, in the dead of night on a holiday weekend, escaped his office and his day-to-day life. “He blames himself for Annabella’s death,” I said. “And whoever sent those texts scared him into hiding.”
“I think you lost me,” Lee said.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m just theorizing again.”
Forty
“Do you think he’s still alive?” my dad asked, sipping his Hendrick’s martini. He was talking about Dylan Welch.
“I do,” I said. “But I’ll admit I don’t have a logical reason for feeling that way.”
We were sitting at our favorite table at The Street Bar, the two of us in comfy chairs under low lighting. I sipped a very dry Chablis, snacking on potato chips, mixed nuts, and green olives. I’d just given Dad the full update on this increasingly bizarre case.
I’d found it a lot easier than talking to Lee. One, because I didn’t have to worry about keeping any information from my father. And two, because The Street Bar was so damn atmospheric. It reminded me, in a way, of Susan Silverman’s office—not so much in terms of décor but in its sense of calm.
How strange was it that, just twenty-four hours earlier, I’d been there, in Susan’s office, complaining about Richie, his suggestion that I ease up on “dangerous” cases like this one fresh in my mind and stinging?One day ago.It felt like a year…Regardless, this place did make me realize how much more enjoyable therapy would be if booze and snacks were provided.
“Think about it,” Dad was saying. “Welch may have supplied the drugs that led to this girl’s overdose, when he’d nearly died himself just a couple weeks earlier. If he has a conscience, that might have been enough to send him over the edge. If he’s conscience-free, he had plenty of practical reasons: The Mob was after him, and maybe he’d been made aware, maybe not…he was the prime suspect in a murder and in the attempted murder of his best friend.” My dad took a sip. “Not much to live for.”
“I’ve thought about all that,” I said. “It’s true. But my intuition says otherwise.”
“What exactly does it say?”
I took a sip of my Chablis and ate a few more potato chips. I was hogging all the snacks, but I couldn’t help it. I was starving. I’d barely eaten since the bagels this morning. “I guess I just keep thinking about what Lydia Welch said when she first hired me,” I said. “She told me she has a connection with Dylan. She knows he’s alive and he needs her help…Jeez, saying it out loud…I know it sounds like a bunch of woo-woo crap.”
“Woo-woo?”Dad said.
“Mumbo jumbo,” I said.
“Ah. Well, actually, no, it doesn’t,” he said. “Parents can sense these things. It’s not mumbo jumbo. It’s a part of nature.” He smiled.
I smiled back. “Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “The head of security at Gonzo is a former cop, and he remembers you fondly.”
“Who doesn’t—I mean, who isn’t dead or in jail?”
I shrugged. “I can’t think of anybody.” I sipped more of my Chablis.
“So what was the fellow’s name?” he said.
“Maurice Dupree.”
“Hmm…” He stared off into space for a moment, then started to laugh. “I remember Maurice,” he said. “I liked him a lot.”
I drank more wine. “Well, the feeling’s mutual.”
“Not the greatest cop, but a sweet, sweet guy.”
“Not the greatest cop?”
Dad sighed. He drank his martini. His hand trembled a bit as he raised the glass, but we both pretended not to notice. I popped more olives into my mouth and waited for him to speak.
“That wasn’t very fair of me,” he said. “He was a perfectly fine cop, but he had a very, very messy personal life. Married with three kids and a very demanding mistress that we all knew about. It’s a wonder his wife didn’t.”
I stopped chewing and stared at him. This genuinely surprised me. Maurice did not seem like a cheater—this man whoapologized for saying the f-word. Though, when I thought about it, I wasn’t sure what one thing had to do with the other.
