The car that hit them was a Chevy Suburban registered to a Tony Lafora. But he wasn’t in the car that night.”
“So who was?” Ryan asked.
“Some burned out drunk with three prior DUIs.”
Ryan felt an unexpected wave of relief come over him at the news that the accident had indeed been random.
“But I don’t think he was driving either,” Weinstien added after a dramatic pause.
“What? Why? Was he at the wheel or not?”
“He was at the wheel, but I don’t think he was driving. His blood alcohol content was .45, and his tox screen also came up positive for pretty high levels of benzodiazepines — you know, like Valium and Xanax. I don’t think he could’ve been conscious, much less driving, at the time of the crash.
“Also, a quick review of his arrest records revealed that on every other DUI charge, he’d been pulled over for driving too slowly and swerving all over the road. The police determined that the car that hit your parents was going close to sixty in a twenty-five mile an hour zone.
“Plus he’d never stolen a car in his life — much less this one.”
“Well, he doesn’t exactly sound like a model citizen. He probably passed out with his foot on the gas,” Ryan said dismissively, stubbornly clinging to the hope that his parents were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Maybe. But get this. It turns out Tony Lafora, the car’s actual owner, had been working on tweaking driverless car technologies through a joint venture between Google and NASA’s Glenn Research Center here in Cleveland. And the Chevy Suburban he was tinkering with at his house had suddenly gone missing from his garage three days before the accident. He’d actually called the police to report it stolen.”
“So did they ever find out who stole it?”
“Not definitively. They blamed it on the drunk. I mean, I can’t say I blame them; he was in the driver’s seat when it crashed.
“Lafora ended up losing his job at NASA for having the car off campus. But off the record pretty much everyone knew he’d keep it in his garage for weeks at a time. They only fired him to protect their image. They hired him right back a few months later with a slightly different title to do basically the same thing.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“I talked to him! He still lives in Cleveland.
“He says, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there’s absolutely no way a career alcoholic with no education could’ve pulled this off. Whoever stole that car would’ve had to have known not only how to override the driverless feature, which requires significant programming expertise, but also how to disable the tracking feature, which is even more advanced.
“Lafora never even considered that the car would ever be stolen. He didn’t even lock it.”
Exactly three months before the opening of Avillage, Ryan could hear Dillon whispering in his ear. “Maybe he wanted it to be stolen,” he thought out loud. “Maybe the guy who stole it didn’t know how to disable the driverless feature. Maybe Lafora disabled it — temporarily. Then he took back over when he was fed my parents’ location.
“Listen, I know for a fact that someone, who was later gifted shares of my stock by Avillage, knew where my dad’s phone was at all times.”
Ryan ignored a brief vibration from his phone indicating a new text. “You said Lafora still lives in Cleveland. Do you know where?”
“I do,” Weinstien answered with no change in his tone. “In the same duplex he’s lived in for over ten years. He’s got no criminal record. He rides a scooter to work, and he still — ten years after the incident — works the exact same job. Doesn’t exactly sound like the kind of guy who would get into murder for hire. Good idea though. I think you’re probably on the right track — just not with him.”
“Did anyone ever talk to the drunk?” he asked.
“Not possible. He’s dead. Died in the accident. Or I guess I should say near the accident. He was unrestrained. Ended up 30 feet down the road from the crash site.”
“So the case is pretty much closed?” Ryan asked, almost rhetorically.
“Afraid so. No one really seems to be satisfied with the answers, but there are no other leads. Sorry I couldn’t give you better closure.
“Oh, and obviously I haven’t looked into your grandfather’s situation yet. Gimme some time on that. I have to take care of some things back in Jersey first.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Weinstien. I mean it. I’m really impressed. And it means a lot that you’d do this for me.”
“Don’t mention it, kid,” Weinstien said just before hanging up, clearly not comfortable with compliments.
Ryan set his phone down face up on his desk and stared blankly out his bedroom window. But before he could bury himself too deeply in thought, a tiny flash of green light from the corner of his phone drew him back to the present. He’d forgotten about the new text he’d gotten while he was on the phone.
But it wasn’t a text message. It was a stock alert from his brokerage account. He’d set the account up to notify him if any of his stocks moved over 10% in either direction.
Comfortable in the fact he wasn’t overexposed in any one specific holding, he tapped the link embedded in the message more out of curiosity than concern.
As soon as the page loaded though, his jaw dropped to his chest. No! What did he do?
DILN was down over 90%.
“Move!” Dillon demanded over the shrill screams of the other food court patrons, half running for their lives and half huddling pitifully under their tables.
“Alright! Alright! Just settle down,” Bradford stuttered. “You’re taking this way too far. I’m just a businessman. I didn’t do anything to you or your friends.”
“Bullshit. I know what you did. And you’re going to admit it,” Dillon said confidently, directing him through the double doors to the parking lot. The ‘72 Impala was still waiting at the curb.
“Get in the back!” Dillon shouted, trying to sound psychologically unstable and capable of anything.
Bradford opened the door and slowly lowered himself into the backseat.
“Now shut the door!”
Dillon got in through the front passenger side and slid himself across the vinyl bench seat to the driver’s side with his torso corkscrewed to keep the gun trained on Bradford’s forehead. He manually rolled the driver side window all the way down with his free hand and then fumbled with the key behind his back, finally blindly landing it in the ignition.
Slowly he backed the Impala out of the rest area parking lot and continued in reverse down the right-side emergency lane of the exit ramp, against traffic.
A few hundred yards after they hit the interstate, alternating focus between Bradford and the rear window, Dillon finally saw the “Welcome to New Hampshire” sign come into view. They’d made it back to Massachusetts.
Leaving the engine running, he threw the transmission into park and rolled his window back up. He then pulled a small machine about the size of a walkie-talkie out of his backpack, and switched it on. The digital display read, “100 PPM.” Perfectly safe. Then he unfolded a sunshade and wedged it on top of the dashboard to cover the front windshield, effectively blocking off the only clear view into the car from the outside.
“Don’t worry,” he said to his stone-faced captive. “I’m not going to kill you. Not because I don’t want to. I’d love to. But you’re not worth the death penalty — which I’d probably be eligible for, you know, with this being premeditated and all.