Robert B Parker's Buzz Kill E-Book

Alison Gaylin

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Sunny Randall Mystery
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 336

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Sunny Randall is hired to investigate the disappearance of an energy drink company's CEO, Dylan. As she gets closer to finding Dylan, she learns not only of his bad behaviour toward numerous women, but of his bad behaviour within the business world – and his energy drink that, despite its marketing, has proven dangerous and even deadly.

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Critical Acclaim for Robert B. Parker

‘Parker writes old-time, stripped-to-the-bone, hard-boiled school of Chandler… His novels are funny, smart and highly entertaining… There’s no writer I’d rather take on an aeroplane’ Sunday Telegraph

‘Parker packs more meaning into a whispered “yeah” than most writers can pack into a page’ Sunday Times

‘Why Robert Parker’s not better known in Britain is a mystery. His best series featuring Boston-based PI Spenser is a triumph of style and substance’ Daily Mirror

‘Robert B. Parker is one of the greats of the American hard-boiled genre’ Guardian

‘Nobody does it better than Parker’ Sunday Times

‘Parker’s sentences flow with as much wit, grace and assurance as ever, and Stone is a complex and consistently interesting new protagonist’ Newsday

‘If Robert B. Parker doesn’t blow it, in the new series he set up in Night Passage and continues with Trouble in Paradise, he could go places and take the kind of risks that wouldn’t be seemly in his popular Spenser stories’ New York Times

1

‘I never thought I’d say this,’ I told Richie, ‘but I love New Jersey.’

Richie grinned. ‘All you’ve seen of it is my apartment.’

He was correct, if a little generous. I’d seen the kitchen, because my dog, Rosie, had insisted. And then the bedroom, which was where we currently were, lying on our backs in the pink glow of a glorious December sunset, having just caught our breath. The ocean view from the bedroom window was spectacular, and the bed itself was heaven, the sheets a fine Egyptian cotton and with a ridiculously high thread count, bought by Richie especially for this occasion, ‘because I know you like that fancy stuff.’ But if I was going to be honest, the rest of Richie’s apartment was a blur. ‘I’ve seen and experienced the best that the Garden State has to offer,’ I said.

‘Can’t dispute that,’ Richie said.

Rosie nosed open the bedroom door and scuttled in, her claws clacking on the parquet wood floor. She jumped up on the bed and burrowed between us until her big bull terrier head was under both of our pillows, her lower half sticking out, tail wagging. The perfect family portrait. I’d have snapped a selfie so I could paint it later, but I didn’t want to ruin the mood.

‘I’ve missed you, Sunny,’ Richie said.

I gave him sad eyes. ‘You’ve only missed me for my dog.’

Rosie knew the word dog. On cue, she pulled her head out from the pillows and licked Richie’s cheek. He smiled, scratching her behind the ear. ‘It is a pretty sweet package deal,’ he said.

It had been nearly five months since I’d been in the same room as my ex-husband. The last time he’d seen me in bed, it had been a hospital bed, and I’d been recovering from stab wounds after a run-in with a psychopath.

And so, for two people who had decided to try to make a go at… something… we had a lot of catching up to do. Physically speaking, we’d accomplished that mission, but that was no surprise. Nonverbal communication had always been our strong suit. The problem was talking. Figuring out what, exactly, this ‘something’ was.

The one constant throughout our very long and complicated relationship was this: Richie was the one who wanted to put his foot on the gas, while I was content to keep the gearshift in park for as long as I possibly could. It had been the reasonwe’d divorced – and the reason he’d remarried, had a kid, and divorced again. And it had been the reason I’d gone into analysis.

But things change. People change. Even me. Once you hit a certain age, a long absence can affect you in ways you never expected it to.

‘Rosie’s missed you, too,’ I said.

Richie and I had been in touch via phone and the occasional Zoom chat since his big move down the shore (get me, talking like a Jersey girl). But our busy schedules had prevented us from seeing each other until now. On Richie’s end, it was starting a new job as general manager of Candy’s Room – a bar/restaurant that advertised itself as being ‘the number-one destination for the world’s greatest Springsteen tribute bands’ – as well as working out a joint custody schedule for his son, Richard Jr, in a whole new state.

For me, it was the fame I’d acquired as the result of a high profile case I’d solved – which involved a couple Instagram influencers, as well as the aforementioned run-in with said psychopath. With the Boston press swarming my apartment building and calling me nonstop following my release from the hospital, I’d finally relented, giving an exclusive interview to Tom Gorman, a sweet Globe columnist I’d dated for about a minute the previous year. No sparks. (I’d left my heart, as it seemed, in New Jersey.) But professionally speaking, the interview had changed my life. It went viral, landing me with more work than I knew what to do with. Other than Thanksgiving, this was my first free weekend since July. So at long last,I’d packed a bag, grabbed Rosie, and taken the four-and-a-half-hour drive to Richie’s apartment.

So far, the reunion had been better than I’d dreamed it would be. And I have excellent dreams. Ask my shrink. She’s blushed more than once – and believe me, she’s not a blusher.

I rolled over onto my side and ran a hand through Richie’s dark hair, inhaling his clean, familiar scent. Rosie licked my hand and flipped onto her back so I could rub her belly. I could be happy here, I thought. Maybe.

‘You ever miss Boston?’ I said.

‘Yes and no.’

‘Meaning…’

‘I don’t miss owning the saloon. I don’t miss the traffic. I don’t miss all the baggage that comes with people knowing who my dad is. But I do miss my dad. I miss the regulars at the saloon. I miss being able to get a decent lobster roll. I miss the lights on the harbor at sunset. I also miss the Bloody Marys at the Russell House and… you know…’

‘Spike?’

‘Sure,’ he said and smiled. ‘I miss Spike.’

I smiled back. ‘And Rosie.’

‘We already covered that.’ Richie kissed my hand. Rosie snuggled between us, and I felt hopeful and confused and nervous and content, all those conflicting emotions rushing back, the way they always did when I was with Richie after a long absence or even a short one. And I could tell he was feeling the same. It seems like you understand each other, my shrink, Susan Silverman, had told me during my last visit.

We do, I’d replied. We always have. But does that mean we belong together?

That’s a question only you can answer, she had said, which hardly seemed fair, considering how much time and money I’d invested in her over the years.

I asked Richie how his son was enjoying his new school. He said he loved it. I asked him about work, and he said he couldn’t complain. He asked me about my work, and I told him that I couldn’t complain, either. Then I let him know that I’d turned down multiple offers from Bill Welch, a multimillionaire who wanted me to ‘discreetly’ track down his wayward son, Dylan – the CEO of an energy drink company called Gonzo and, as a side note, a total douchebag. (I’d dealt with Dylan back in July, and in my humble opinion, he was better off missing.)

‘How much did Welch offer you to find his son?’ Richie asked.

‘Not enough to cancel my weekend plans.’

Richie looked at me in a way that could have melted the polar ice caps. ‘As your weekend plans, I’d like to show my appreciation.’

We kissed. We kissed some more. Things progressed. And then, when we were catching our breath for the second time, Richie asked the million-dollar question.

‘Sunny,’ he said. ‘Where do we go from here?’

I gazed deep into his eyes and gave him a blinding cop-out of a smile. ‘How about out to dinner?’

‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Richie said. He looked relieved. Or maybe I was just projecting. Another question for my therapist, I supposed.

After we were dressed and outside and he’d locked the door behind us, Richie slipped his arm around my waist. ‘You know what?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t mind having you nearby for more than just a weekend.’

‘You say that now, but I only just got here.’

‘I know.’

‘You could be really annoyed with me in forty-eight hours.’

‘I’m willing to take that risk.’

I rested my head on his shoulder, the palm of my hand against the back of his coat. It felt terrifyingly comfortable. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

Richie kissed my forehead. He pulled me closer. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

2

I spent an extra day down the shore. It meant I had to leave on Monday before dawn to get home, shower, change, and go back to my office at a reasonable hour, but it was worth it. I loved Asbury Park in December – the windswept beach, the absolute quietness of it, the Christmas tree Richie and I passed every day during our long walks by the water – a scraggly pine bedecked with painted seashells. I loved the cold, the way it made us huddle together, and the fact that the Jersey Shore’s population thinned by more than half during the offseason, making it possible to get a table at any restaurant we wanted, no matter the time.

And the sunsets. Always, the sunsets.

By the time Rosie and I got back to my apartment, I was already deeply homesick for New Jersey. I listened to Springsteen on Spotify as I got ready for work – changing out of my comfy sweats and into a Brunello Cucinelli sweater dress – replaying scenes from the weekend in my mind. I thought about everything Richie and I had said to each other – and everything we didn’t say. Beyond that brief exchange outside his apartment, we’d never gotten around to answering the dreaded ‘Where do we go from here?’ question. But maybe that was for the best. When it came to relationships, I’d never done well with road maps. It was better to take things one day at a time. And on this particular day, at this particular time, anything felt possible – even moving away from Boston.

Once I was dressed and Rosie was fed, I stretched a canvas. After work, I planned to paint the view from Richie’s bedroom.

‘What do you think, Rosie?’ I said as I eyed the blank white cloth. ‘Winters on the Jersey Shore? Summers? The whole year?’

Rosie barked.

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘It might be difficult to move in with Richie right away with his son there every other week. I mean… Richard Junior is great, but am I ready to be a stepmom?’

Rosie barked again.

‘Find a place of my own down there? That could be very expensive, Rosie. Especially if I want to keep this loft.’

She followed me into the kitchen. I tossed her a treat and thanked her for listening.

My phone dinged. It was a reminder that, at five p.m., I had an appointment with Susan Silverman. It couldn’t have come at a better time.

When I arrived at work at ten a.m., my new-ish receptionist, Blake James, was sitting at his desk, taking a selfie. Once an influencer with hundreds of thousands of followers, Blake had deleted his Instagram account four months ago following a family tragedy. But in his case, apparently, old habits died hard.

‘Morning, Blake,’ I said as I walked in.

‘Morning,’ he said. ‘I was just trying to get a look at this… this wound.’

‘What wound?’

‘This one.’ He pointed to his jaw. ‘I cut myself shaving this morning. I think it might be infected.’

‘I don’t see anything.’

‘You sure?’

I moved closer. From this distance, I could make out a tiny scratch in Blake’s otherwise flawless skin. ‘It doesn’t look infected,’ I said. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Then it’s probably not.’

Blake’s face relaxed. I was used to this. Blake was a very young twenty-two. He’d grown up mostly without a mother and had been through a lot of trauma within the past year. And so, as muscular and self-assured as he appeared on the surface, he was continuously showing me his ouchies. ‘Thank you, Sunny,’ he said.

‘Don’t mention it.’

He put down his phone. ‘How was your weekend?’

‘Fantastic.’

‘Did Rosie have fun?’

‘She did.’

‘I wish you’d brought her in. I miss her.’

‘She was pretty tired this morning,’ I said. ‘But I’ll bring her in tomorrow.’

‘Cool,’ Blake said. He loved Rosie. I appreciated that. I also understood his need for a job, and, following the uptick in business, my need for a receptionist. But still, it was hard getting used to anyone in my office every day – especially on those mornings when I wasn’t in the mood to talk. Blake was always in the mood to talk. Always.

‘I made coffee,’ Blake said. ‘It’s really good. I saw this TikTok where a girl put a teaspoon of nutmeg and a teaspoon of cinnamon in with the grounds. She said it makes the coffee less bitter, so I tried that and it worked. You want some?’

‘Maybe later,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’ I started toward my office.

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Blake said. ‘You have a customer… Sorry. Client,’ he said. ‘I’m still learning this private investigator lingo.’

‘Potential client? Because I haven’t taken on anybody new.’

‘Right. Potential,’ he said. ‘Anyway, she’s in your office.’

‘I don’t remember scheduling any meetings.’

‘Yeah, it wasn’t on the calendar. But she said it was urgent.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Dylan’s mom.’

‘Dylan Welch?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I said no to his father.’

‘His mom said “no” wasn’t an acceptable answer.’

I let out a long, draining sigh.

‘Rich people,’ Blake said. ‘Am I right?’

‘Why did you let her in?’

Blake’s cheeks reddened. He picked at a nail. ‘You know how pushy Bill Welch was?’

‘Yeah?’

‘How he kept having his assistant call about his son over and over again after you said no and recommended other PIs, and how he sent you all those emails telling you that the names you sent were unacceptable, and we were both like, “What the hell is his problem?” Remember all that?’

‘I remember, Blake,’ I said. ‘It was a week ago.’

‘Well, his wife, Mrs Welch. Lydia.’

‘Yeah?’

‘She’s worse.’

On cue, the door to my office opened. A tall blonde woman stepped out, sporting head-to-toe Chanel, a fresh blowout, huge but tasteful diamond stud earrings, and a look on her face like she wanted to speak to the manager – and rip her limb from limb if she didn’t get her way.

Blake shuddered, noticeably.

‘Lydia Welch?’ I said to the woman.

‘Sunny Randall,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’

3

Before today, I’d seen Lydia Welch only once, and that wasn’t even in person. I’d seen her in a family photo that she’d shared on Facebook five years ago, taken at the Welch summer home in Nantucket on the Fourth of July.

Surrounded by her loved ones, Lydia had struck me as laid back, relaxed, and very down-to-earth, especially for someone in her tax bracket. It just goes to show how misleading social media can be. Granted, she was on vacation in the picture – and clearly in a much better mood. But the Lydia Welch I encountered in my office could have easily pulled a set of quietly elegant brass knuckles out of her Birkin bag and knocked Facebook Lydia senseless.

I asked Blake to bring us two cups of his coffee, and he practically sprinted out of the room.

Lydia Welch and I spent about a minute getting situated – me behind my desk and Lydia on one of the two comfortable leather client chairs I’d bought about a month ago, when I’d spent my newfound surplus on an office renovation.

Then, for what felt like a few hours but was probably around a minute, the two of us just sat there. There was a lot of throat clearing on my part, a few well-placed glares on hers. For someone who had led with ‘We need to talk,’ Mrs Welch was distinctly nonverbal. It felt like a power play to me. Whoever cracked first and spoke lost.

I lost.

‘Mrs Welch. If this is about your son, I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘Of course it’s about my son,’ she said. ‘Yes, you can help me find him. And you will.’

‘I already told your husband, I’m not the right person for the job.’

‘I read the Globearticle,’ Lydia Welch said. ‘You’re the best out there. That makes you the right person.’

‘I’m flattered,’ I said. ‘But the truth is, Mrs Welch, Dylan hates me.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Oh, no, it isn’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, for one thing, I insulted him.’

‘You’re not the first.’

‘I drew a gun on him.’

‘A misunderstanding.’

‘I caused him serious bodily injury.’

‘You called an ambulance afterward.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘That was kind.’

Blake returned with our coffees, along with a cream pitcher and a sugar bowl, all on a tray. He placed it on my desk. ‘Is there anything else you’d like?’

‘Privacy.’ Lydia glared at him. Blake’s face flushed and a look crept into his eyes, as if he’d discovered another ouchie. ‘Okey dokey.’

‘Thank you very much, Blake,’ I said as he left.

Lydia stirred cream into her coffee. I sipped mine. Blake was right. It was very good.

‘That assistant of yours. I recognize him.’

‘He used to advertise Dylan’s product on his Instagram account,’ I said.

‘Gonzo,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘We gave Dylan that company, you know,’ she said. ‘He told us he had an idea for an energy drink with twice the caffeine of the strongest blend on the market and twenty-two essential vitamins. Bill and I gave him the start-up money. He’d failed with the dating app, but he desperately wanted to be an entrepreneur. I convinced Bill to provide the funds. I thought Gonzo was a catchy name.’

I looked at Lydia. It was pretty clear she’d been the force behind her husband’s persistent calls and emails. ‘I’m not a fan of energy drinks,’ I said, ‘but it seems like a popular brand.’

‘It is.’ She swallowed her coffee. ‘Especially in the past two quarters. Not because of Dylan, though.’

‘No?’

‘The COO – an old college friend of his – does all the work.’

‘Oh.’

‘Just like the dating app and every other new toy we’ve ever given him, he got bored with it,’ she said. ‘Your assistant probably takes his job more seriously than Dylan has ever taken anything. Even Harvard. Dylan went to Harvard, you know.’

‘Yes, I know.’ In fact, I’d heard all about his Harvard years from Teresa Leone – his girlfriend at that time. ‘I understand he wanted to go to film school after graduation,’ I said, ‘but his father wouldn’t let him.’

Lydia Welch rolled her eyes. ‘First of all, who doesn’t want to go to film school?’

I shrugged. That was kind of true.

‘Second, his father wouldn’t let him because he felt it was a stall tactic. And I did, too. Dylan didn’t want to make movies. He wanted to spend another two or three years hanging out in Hollywood nightclubs and spending our money.’

I nodded. ‘Okay, but this friend of Dylan’s also told me that his father wouldn’t give him the backing for the dating app,’ I said, ‘and that made him turn to some dicey sources.’

‘That’s partially true,’ she said. ‘I gave him the money for the dating app. Out of my personal account. When the business failed and I wouldn’t bail him out, he did obtain additional funding from Russian gangsters.’

Wow, I thought. That’s even worse.

‘By the way, this friend of his,’ she said. ‘Was this a girl, by any chance? One he was interested in and trying to impress?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘In any case, it took a lot of finagling on my part, but I found the right lawyers, we paid off the right gangsters. And he was free to disappoint us again and again.’

I looked at her for a long while. ‘This is enlightening,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t make me want to take this case. But it is enlightening.’

Lydia let out a sigh. ‘Sunny,’ she said, ‘you take your job seriously.’

‘I do.’

‘I could tell that just from reading that article,’ she said. ‘You care about people. You care about families.’

‘Not all people,’ I said. ‘Not all families.’

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but drew a sharp breath instead. She seemed to be at a loss for words – unusual for her, I was sure. Surprisingly, it made me feel kind of bad.

‘You know, I’m not as great as that article would have you believe,’ I said.

‘Modesty,’ she said. ‘Yet another virtue.’

‘Full disclosure, I used to date the guy who wrote it.’

She smiled. ‘That speaks even more highly of you. An ex portraying you that way.’

I sighed. ‘You get your mind set on something, you don’t let go, do you?’

‘Like a dog with a bone,’ she said. ‘It’s how I got Bill to propose.’

I watched her for a few moments. ‘I’m assuming you want to offer me more than your husband did.’

‘Absolutely.’

I thought about the second home on the Jersey Shore. ‘How much more?’

Lydia opened her Birkin bag. She removed a piece of ivory-colored stationery and a Montblanc pen. She wrote a number on the stationery, turned it face down, and slid it across the desk. ‘I know this is corny,’ she said.

‘I’ve only ever seen it done in movies.’

‘Same here,’ she said. ‘But some numbers are better off written than said out loud.’

I turned the paper over. Looked at the figure – enough for a down payment or at least a year’s rent on a very nice, dog-friendly apartment in Asbury Park.

I cleared my throat. ‘Can I ask you something, Mrs Welch?’

‘Lydia.’

‘Lydia,’ I said. ‘How do you know that Dylan is missing?’

‘Pardon?’

‘He’s a grown man. He leads an active lifestyle. Would it be that out of character for him to take off somewhere for… How long has it been?’

‘Two weeks.’

I exhaled. ‘That doesn’t seem like a very long time.’

‘Have you ever gone that long without talking to your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Truly?’

I cleared my throat. ‘I do talk to my dad very frequently.’

Lydia set her coffee cup back on its saucer. She tucked a lock of shiny hair behind an ear, then folded her hands in her lap – every move of hers perfectly composed, but with a tension beneath the surface, like a smooth white sky just before a storm. ‘I’m sorry you don’t have a good relationship with your mother.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

‘I suppose not,’ I said.

‘Dylan doesn’t have a good relationship with his father,’ she said. ‘They’re very different personalities. They speak rarely. I don’t even think they necessarily trust each other.’

I nodded.

She looked at me as though she expected me to contribute to the conversation – to tell her that my mother and I shared a similar dynamic. But I didn’t take the bait. My shrink appointment wasn’t until five p.m., and I could handle that discussion only once in a day.

‘Every child needs at least one parent on their side,’ she said.

I nodded again.

‘Dylan and I have a special connection, Sunny,’ she said. ‘I know all about what you generously called his “active lifestyle,” when what you really meant was the clubbing, the benders, the rehab stays, the escapes from rehab…’

‘So you understand,’ I said.

‘I understand he isn’t perfect,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t change our connection. It doesn’t stop me from knowing when he needs my help. Like with those Russian gangsters. He didn’t have to tell me…’

An emotion passed through Lydia’s clear blue eyes – a type of ache, as though a part of her had been removed and she needed it back in order to survive. It felt genuine enough to move me. I hated her for that.

I let out a heavy sigh. ‘Tell me about the last time you spoke to him.’

‘It was at his place of business.’

‘DylWel Inc.?’

She smiled. ‘DylWel is just a website, Sunny,’ she said. ‘The dating app was his only other venture.’

‘So… Gonzo.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The corporate offices. We had lunch plans.’

‘You met him there.’

‘Yes.’

‘You went out to lunch.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He said he wouldn’t be able to join me.’

‘Did he give a reason?’

‘No.’ She drank more coffee, then cradled the cup in her hands. ‘He didn’t look very good.’

‘How so?’

‘He probably looked like he did the last time you saw him.’

‘Strung out?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A little.’

‘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 after sorry.’

‘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’ll need 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 said DYLAN on 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.’

4

‘So Lydia Welch made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.’ Spike was doing his best Godfather impersonation, 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?’

‘I’ve killed for less than that.’

‘To be fair, you’ve often killed pro bono.’

‘True. But still.’

‘I know.’

The server came by with our orders – a bleu cheeseburger for Spike and a classic Greek salad for me, plus two iced teas. The server’s name was Norah and I knew her well. She asked me where Rosie was, a concerned look on her face. I told her Rosie was fine – just taking a personal day.

When she left, Spike asked to see Lydia’s offer again, just to make sure he’d read it correctly. I obliged.

‘I’m awestruck,’ Spike said.

‘I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you awestruck,’ I said. ‘In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word awestruck.’

‘You haven’t,’ he said as I put the stationery back in my purse. ‘If it wasn’t lunchtime on a Monday, I’d break out my best champagne.’

‘Rain check on the champagne,’ I said. ‘And I’m buying.’

He raised his glass of iced tea. ‘To future champagne,’ he said.

‘Future champagne.’ I clinked my glass with his.

Spike sipped his tea. I took a bite of my salad, thinking about how much champagne I could buy with the sum Lydia Welch had written so casually on that luxe piece of stationery. A life-changing number, to be sure. But the truth was, it wasn’t just the money that had made me accept Lydia’s offer. It was that lost look in her eyes – the very obvious fact that, despite all she had in this world, she was missing something she needed, and that something was a person. Okay, an asshole of a person. But it wasn’t my job to judge the missing.

Spike asked me how the investigation was going so far. I told him that, with Blake’s help, I’d called all the names on Lydia’s list. And of the few who had deigned to pick up their phones for us – two ex-girlfriends, three former employees from the dating app, a college suitemate, a cousin – none of them had seen Dylan in months, if not years. Blake was emailing the non-answerers, but I didn’t have much hope there, either. ‘Dylan Welch doesn’t seem to forge lasting friendships,’ I said.

‘I’m sure brief friendships don’t happen much for him, either,’ Spike said.

I nodded. ‘His mother loves him, though,’ I said. ‘That’s obvious. When Bill Welch met with me, he seemed… I don’t know… Like someone had put him up to it. But Lydia was sincere.’

‘You’re a sucker for sincerity,’ Spike said. ‘You always have been.’

‘Fortunately, it’s a very rare quality,’ I said.

Spike took another bite of his burger. I went back to my salad. It was quite good. The perfect balance of olives and feta, and the dressing was bright and tangy.

Spike asked if I’d checked with Dylan’s bank and credit card providers to see if he’d withdrawn money or put any charges on his cards since he went missing. And I told him the sad truth about Dylan Welch: After a post-college spending spree that resulted in maxed-out cards, close to a million in debt – and massive humiliation for his family – Lydia took it upon herself to oversee all of Dylan’s finances.

‘He can’t withdraw five dollars without the bank alerting Lydia,’ I said. ‘He has only one card in his own name. And it has a limit of one thousand dollars.’

‘The ultimate poor little rich boy,’ Spike said.

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Anyway, Lydia said there’s been no activity on any of those accounts since he went missing. So he’s either obtaining funds from other sources or…’ I took a sip of tea. I didn’t feel like finishing the sentence.

‘So what’s next?’

‘After lunch, I’m going over to the Gonzo corporate offices,’ I said. ‘I figure I’ll have more luck talking to people there, and I always do better in person.’

‘Nobody can hang up on you.’

‘Exactly.’

Spike drank some of his tea. ‘Speaking of doing better in person…’ He gave me a meaningful look that I understood instantly.

I rolled my eyes at him. ‘The weekend was good. Richie’s good,’ I said. ‘We had fun.’

Spike kept looking at me. I knew he was waiting for me to say more. Just like I knew what he meant by ‘speaking of doing better in person’ without his having to explain. When your friendship has lasted longer than most people’s marriages – and Spike and mine had, to say the least – you can read each other’s minds with an alarming facility.

He took another bite of his burger and stared at me some more. I ate some more of my salad and stared back. He drank his iced tea. I drank mine. The whole time, our gazes stayed locked. It was a game of chicken, albeit one that was, compared to most games of chicken, rather polite and low stakes. All Spike wanted was for me to tell him if my relationship status had changed from complicated to super-complicated.

‘Okay, you win,’ I said finally. ‘I’m considering moving down the shore.’

Spike’s eyes widened. ‘Wow.’

‘Just for part of the year,’ I said.

‘Get you.’

‘Get me.’

‘Which part of the year?’

‘Probably winters, weird as that sounds.’

Spike took another sip of his iced tea. ‘It doesn’t sound that weird.’

‘I like it there in the winter.’

He nodded. ‘So you really did have fun with Richie.’

‘I did.’

‘And you think you can make it work this time.’

‘I do.’

We ate in silence for several minutes.

‘I’m happy for you,’ Spike said finally. I could tell he’d put a lot of thought into that response. And he was telling the truth. Spike always told the truth. ‘One question,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you still going to call me when you need some heads busted?’

‘It’s a five-hour drive,’ I said. ‘You might not be able to get there in time.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Maybe you should teach me karate.’

Spike gave me a long, appraising look. ‘Judo,’ he said. ‘With those skinny arms, you’d be much better at judo.’

5

I arrived at Gonzo’s corporate headquarters at one-thirty p.m. They were located on one of the top floors of the Winthrop Center – a futuristic mirrored skyscraper in the Financial District that also happened to be the fourth tallest building in Boston. Riding the elevator, my ears clicked. I was a little lightheaded as I entered the offices – a feeling that was only heightened by the atmosphere. The waiting area was all white leather and chrome, decorated for the season with a white artificial Christmas tree bedecked in shiny red-and-white Gonzo cans. A giant projection screen took up an entire wall, showing continuous footage of old black-and-white monster movies – Godzilla, King Kong, The Wolfman – all with colorized cans of Gonzo edited in. The design scheme here seemed to be ‘unpleasant hallucination.’

I’d been able to do only the tiniest bit of research on Gonzo’s COO, Sky Farley, whom Lydia had described in the ‘relation’ field as Dylan’s ‘longtime chum – WONDERFUL.’ Sky didn’t seem to be on social media – not even LinkedIn. A real hindrance when you’re trying to learn about someone.

He did look good on paper – what little paper there was. According to the bio I found on the DylWel website, Sky had graduated from Harvard the same year as Dylan, dual-majoring in biotechnology and data science. But instead of doing what Dylan did following graduation – which was basically nothing, other than piling up mountains of debt – Sky had gone straight to NYU’s Stern School of Business, where he’d gotten his MBA and worked on Wall Street for a couple years. Online at least, Sky seemed like the ultimate silent partner. The bio wasn’t even accompanied by a picture (I couldn’t find pictures of him on Harvard’s website, either), and if he ever went to ribbon cuttings or press events, he wasn’t photographed at them.

Here he was, second-in-command at a high-profile company. The one who did all the work, according to Lydia – but otherwise, an invisible man. For all I knew at this point, Sky Farley could have been as serious and brilliant as his bio implied. Or he could have been the one to have chosen this décor.

I moved toward the reception desk, which was very long and white and had padded leather and chrome detailing at the front to match the furniture in the waiting area. It reminded me of a spaceship’s console from some cheesy old TV show, save for the neon GONZO logo flashing obnoxiously from the wall behind it.

Actually, it just said GON. The sign was broken – the Z and the O missing in action. Strange, I thought. Everything else in this hellhole seemed immaculate.

The receptionist was gazing down at her desk as I approached. I assumed it was an effort to avoid the flashing red letters, which reflected off all the chrome in a way that was, at the very least, distracting.

‘Not a great place to work if you’re prone to seizures,’ I said to her.

She was dressed in all white with silver jewelry, presumably to match the furniture. It made me worried about her drycleaning bills. She looked up, confusion all over her face.

‘The sign,’ I said, pointing to it.

She winced. ‘Oh. Yes.’

I noticed a few glass shards on the floor. ‘Did it just break?’ The receptionist blinked at me. She was young and birdlike and looked very nervous. I decided she wasn’t one for small talk.

‘I’d like to speak with Sky Farley, please,’ I said.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Not really.’

One of her eyelids started to twitch.

I felt like she was on the verge of calling security, so I spoke quickly. ‘I’m working for Lydia Welch.’

She let out a long sigh. Her shoulders relaxed. ‘Dylan’s mom.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I opened my purse and took out my PI license. She glanced at it.

‘You’re the private investigator,’ she said. ‘Mrs Welch called and said you might be coming by.’

‘Oh, good. I hate having to explain things.’

She stole another look at my license. ‘I hope everything works out, Ms Randall,’ she said. ‘My name is Elspeth, by the way.’

She stuck out a delicate hand. I shook it gently. ‘I’ll do my best to find him, Elspeth,’ I said.

‘Find who?’

‘Um… Dylan?’

‘Of course.’ Elspeth visibly cringed. ‘Sorry. Crazy day. I’ll see if Sky is available.’ She slipped a Bluetooth into her ear and angled herself away from me, speaking in a tone so low I could barely hear her.

Then she turned around and stood up. ‘She’ll speak to you,’ she said.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Sky Farley is a she?’ I was genuinely shocked – not because I was sexist, of course. It was because I couldn’t imagine Dylan Welch successfully working with a woman in any type of capacity – let alone viewing her as a ‘longtime chum.’

I nearly explained that to Elspeth, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to. ‘Sky likes everybody,’ she said.

She stood up and led me to a long hallway. We walked until we reached a metal detector. It was manned by a hulking security guard who asked me to empty the contents of my purse and place them in a plastic tray. I was surprised by the whole setup, but I did as I was told. When I got around to removing my .38, the guard’s eyebrows lifted.

‘She’s a private investigator,’ Elspeth told him. ‘Mrs Welch hired her to find Dylan.’

‘Oh.’ If this guy had any opinion of me or of Lydia or Dylan Welch, it didn’t show on his face.

Once we’d made it through the gauntlet and I was zipping up my purse, I turned to Elspeth. ‘I’m all for office safety,’ I said. ‘But if you don’t mind my saying, this seems like a lot.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s new. We’re all getting used to it.’