The Match

Chapter Twenty-Two

When Oren Carmichael answered Wilde’s knock, his eyes went wide.

“My God, what the hell happened to you?”

Oren Carmichael had been there that day thirty-five years ago when little “feral” Wilde had been found in the woods. He’d been the first one to talk to him, lowering himself to the boy’s level and, in the most comforting voice, telling him, “Son, no one is going to harm you, I promise. Can you tell me your name?” Oren Carmichael had driven Wilde to his first foster home, stayed in his room until he fell asleep, been there when he woke up the next morning. Oren Carmichael had both tirelessly investigated how Wilde had ended up in those woods and been a huge help in that lost boy’s transition into this new world. Oren Carmichael had coached Wilde in various sports, chosen him to be on his teams, looked out for him, made sure that Wilde felt as much a part of the community as a boy like Wilde could. Oren Carmichael had offered advice when he felt Wilde needed it, and even helped a rebellious Wilde navigate teen trouble. Oren Carmichael had been the first officer to arrive at the car accident that killed David.

Oren had always been kind, compassionate, strong, measured, professional, intelligent. Wilde admired the way he carried himself, and he’d been happy when Oren and Hester started dating. Hester had been the closest thing Wilde had to a mother, and while he wouldn’t go so far as to call him a father figure, Oren Carmichael had been the closest thing Wilde had to a male role model.

“Wilde?” Oren asked now. “Are you okay?”

Just as it had happened to Wilde less than an hour earlier, Wilde struck Oren’s solar plexus with the heel of his palm, temporarily paralyzing the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him. Oren made an oof noise and stumbled back. Wilde stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His eyes took in everything. Oren was not in uniform and was not carrying his gun. There was no weapon in the nearby vicinity. Wilde scanned for nearby drawers or places where Oren might stow his gun. There was nothing.

Oren stared up at Wilde with a look so pained — from the physical or emotional Wilde couldn’t say, but he had a guess — that Wilde had to turn away. The strike had been necessary; that was what Wilde told himself, even as he questioned the need and remembered that Oren Carmichael was seventy years old now.

Wilde reached out his hand to help. Still heaving, Oren slapped it away.

“Take deep breaths,” Wilde said. “Try to stand upright.”

It took another minute or two. Wilde waited. He had tried not to hit him too hard, just hard enough, but again he had never hit a man in his seventies. When Oren could speak again, he said, “You want to explain yourself?”

“You first,” Wilde said.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Four cops from Hartford just grabbed me off the street, threw a black bag over my head, and worked me over with a cattle prod.”

The realization came to Oren’s face slowly. “Oh Christ.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“What did they do to you, Wilde?”

“I just told you.”

“But they let you go?”

“You think that makes it better?” Wilde shook his head. “I managed to call Laila before they took me. She called Hester, who called someone in Hartford and made threats neither one of us want to know about. That someone made a call and they let me go.”

“Oh, shit.” Oren’s face dropped. “Hester? She knows about this?”

“She doesn’t know I’m here.”

“You figured it out,” Oren said. “How long do you think it will be before she does?”

“Not my problem.”

“You’re right. It’s mine.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I messed up, Wilde. I’m sorry.”

Wilde waited. He didn’t have to prompt Oren to come clean. He would now. Wilde was certain of it.

“I need a drink,” Oren said. “You want one?”

That sounded pretty good to Wilde right now. Oren poured them a Macallan single malt scotch. “I’m really sorry,” he said again. “I know that’s not good enough, but a cop had been murdered.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“As you already know, Hester called in Henry McAndrews’s body being found on behalf of” — Oren made quote marks in the air — “‘an anonymous client who is protected under attorney-client privilege.’ You can’t imagine how much this pissed off the Hartford police. One of their own takes three bullets to the back of his head in his own home — and some loudmouth city lawyer won’t tell them who found the body? They were enraged. Naturally. You can understand that.”

Oren looked at Wilde. Wilde’s expression gave him nothing.

“And then?” Wilde said.

“And then the cops, still furious, checked into Hester and — surprise, surprise — they learned that she was currently dating a fellow law enforcement officer.”

“You,” Wilde said.

Oren nodded.

“So they came to you.”

“Yes.”

“And you betrayed her attorney-client privilege.”

“First off, you’re not a client, Wilde. You don’t pay her. You’re a friend.”

Wilde frowned. “For real?”

“Yes, for real. But second of all, and far more important, Hester didn’t tell me it was you. I didn’t ask her. I didn’t overhear her. I didn’t obtain the information that you were the client in question in an illegal way. I surmised that you were the client that Hester was unethically protecting independently of my private relationship with her.”

Wilde just shook his head.

Oren leaned forward. “Let’s say this happened before Hester and I started dating. The Hartford cops come to me and say, ‘That slick New York attorney from your hometown is protecting someone who broke into the house of a murdered cop, do you have any guesses who that might be?’ My educated guess, even back then, would have been you, Wilde.”

“Nice,” Wilde said.

“Nice what?”

“Self-rationalization. ‘If I didn’t know what I did know I might have known what I said I knew.’”

“I made a miscalculation,” Oren said.

“You gave them my name, right?”

“I did, yes, but I also made it clear that you and I were close. I told them I’d sit down with you and ask you to cooperate because you weren’t the type to want a killer to go free. I never imagined they’d go rogue.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Even when the victim is ‘one of their own’?”

Oren nodded. “Fair enough. Look, Wilde, I want to know who did this to you. I want them to be punished.”

“That won’t happen,” Wilde said. “They blacked out their license plates. They put a bag over my head, so I never saw their faces. They did it on a quiet part of the street with no cameras. Even if I could figure out who they were, it would be my word against theirs. They knew what they were doing.” Wilde took a sip and stared at Oren over the glass. “And you know how cops stick together.”

“Damn. I’m really sorry.”

Wilde waited. He knew what was coming. He just needed to turn it in his favor.

“But you need to listen to me,” Oren said.

And here it comes, Wilde thought.

“A cop, a father of three, has been murdered. You have pertinent information. You just can’t hide from that. You have a responsibility to come forward.”

Wilde considered his next move. Then he asked, “Did the cops search McAndrews’s computer?”

“They’re working on it,” Oren replied. “It’s pretty sophisticated security and there’s a lot on it. What should they be looking for?”

“How about we share?”

“Share what?” Oren said.

“You tell me what the police know about McAndrews’s murder,” Wilde said. “Based on that, I tell you what I think you should do or look into.”

“Are you serious?”

“You have other options,” Wilde said. “For example, you could ask your colleagues to torture me again.”

Oren closed his eyes.

Wilde was furious, but at the end of the day, he wanted whoever killed Henry McAndrews caught. If Wilde had information that could help find the murderer, so be it. He wanted to find Peter Bennett, not protect him.

“I went to McAndrews’s house,” Wilde said, “because I was searching for someone.”

“Who?” Oren asked.

“Peter Bennett. He’s a missing reality star, assumed dead.”

Oren made a face. “Why are you looking for him?”

Wilde saw no reason not to answer. “I put my name in a DNA genealogy site. He came back as related to me.”

“Wait. As in...?”

“Yeah, I’m trying to figure out how I ended up in the woods. I know you’ve been pushing me for a long time to do it. So I did.”

“And?”

“And I found my dad. He lives outside of Las Vegas.”

“What?” Oren’s eyes widened. “What did he say?”

“It’s a long story, but it’s a dead end. So I tried again, this time with a relative on my biological mother’s side.”

“And this reality star—”

“Peter Bennett.”

“He’s related to your mother?”

“Yes. But after he contacted me, he went missing.”

“What do you mean, missing?”

“You can Google his name and get all the details,” Wilde said. “He’s famous. If he’s involved in this murder, I want him captured. There is no love or blood loyalty here. My only self-interest in locating him is to learn more about my birth mother.”

“So you’re searching for this Peter Bennett and somehow you end up on McAndrews?”

“Right.”

“And that’s why you broke into his house?”

“I thought it was empty.”

“So if that’s all true, why didn’t you just come forward? Why have Hester make the call?”

Wilde just looked at him. “You can’t be that dense.”

“I know your breaking into the house might look bad—”

“Might look bad. Come on, Oren. You know how it would look.”

Oren nodded, seeing it now. “I do. An eccentric loner — no offense, Wilde—”

Wilde gestured to indicate none was taken.

“—breaks into a cop’s house and that cop ends up dead.”

“I’d never get a fair shake.”

“You could have come to me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re the most trustworthy cop I know,” Wilde said, “and look at how you bent the rules when it came to finding a cop killer.”

Oren winced. “I guess I deserve that.”

Enough, Wilde thought. It was time to press ahead. “McAndrews was a cop, right?”

“Retired, yes.”

“Most cops still work after they retire. What did he do?”

“He was a private investigator.”

Just as Wilde had expected. “On his own or with a big firm?”

“What difference does it make?” Oren saw Wilde’s face and sighed. “On his own.”

“Did he specialize?”

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about that,” Oren said.

“And I still feel like vomiting from being shocked repeatedly with a cattle prod,” Wilde said. “I’m assuming from your answer that McAndrews’s work was on the sketchy side.”

Oren thought about it. “You think his work life had something to do with his murder?”

“I do, yes. What did he specialize in?”

“Most of McAndrews’s work would be charitably labeled ‘corporate security.’”

“And uncharitably?”

“Trashing the competition online.”

“Explain,” Wilde said.

“You and Hester had dinner tonight at Tony’s, right?”

“What does that—?”

“Let’s say your town has an established favorite pizzeria. You, Wilde, decide to open a competing one nearby. Problem is, people are loyal to Tony’s. So how do you cut into Tony’s customer base in the modern era?”

Wilde said, “I assume the answer is you trash the competition.”

“Exactly. You hire a guy like McAndrews. He creates fake accounts — bots — that post bad reviews of Tony’s. They flood certain websites with rumors about bad sanitation or spoiled food or rude service. Whatever. That would, of course, lower Tony’s ratings on Yelp and wherever else people check reviews. The bots might casually mention that a new pizzeria in town is much better — and then other fake accounts would join in and, ‘Yeah, that new place is awesome’ or ‘They have the best thin crust.’ Like I said, this example is small-time. But corporations are doing this on a large scale too.”

“Is this legal?” Wilde asked.

“No, but it’s nearly impossible to prosecute. Someone writes a fake bad review of you online. Do you know the odds of being able to track the real identity of the poster, especially with anonymity software and VPNs?”

“Zero,” Wilde said.

“And even if you’re somehow able to track down the identity behind one of the bots, so what? The person might say, ‘Oh, that’s how I really felt, but I was afraid if I put my real name, Tony would come after me.’”

Wilde considered that. “Did McAndrews do more than corporate work?”

“Meaning?”

“I assume some clients wanted to trash people rather than corporations.”

“Since the beginning of time,” Oren said. “Why do you ask?”

“When you look up Peter Bennett,” Wilde said, “you will see how many trolls swarmed his social media site, destroying his reputation, enflaming his former fans. Whenever the scandal would die down, these trolls would return and reignite them. A lot of the hate being leveled at Bennett was amplified by Henry McAndrews’s army of bots.”

“So someone was targeting this Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“And they hired McAndrews to do it?”

“Could be.”

“How did you figure out it was McAndrews?”

“That’s confidential. It won’t help to find his killer.”

“Sure, it will,” Oren countered. “Clearly McAndrews wasn’t as good at hiding his identity as he thought. You figured it out. Not to be obvious, but if you could track down McAndrews’s identity, so could Peter Bennett. And who’d have more reason to be angry at McAndrews than him?”

“Maybe,” Wilde allowed. “Look, Oren, I need the name of whoever hired McAndrews to trash Peter Bennett.”

“Assuming someone did hire McAndrews for that purpose — and that’s a somewhat big assumption — there may be an issue with getting you that information.”

“What’s the issue?” Wilde asked.

“One of McAndrews’s sons is an attorney. For an extra layer of security, McAndrews claimed all that he did was legal work product, so it would fall under attorney-client privilege. The clients didn’t pay him directly — they got billed by his son’s law firm.” Oren looked at him hard. “You see, some people take advantage of the rules surrounding attorney-client. Some people will twist the spirit of that clause in a way some may find unethical.”

“One of us is the bad guy here, Oren. And it’s not me.”

That landed. The two men stayed there for a moment, not moving.

“Did anyone report Peter Bennett missing to the police?” Oren asked.

“His sister may have, but I don’t think anyone looked into it. At the end of the day, he’s an adult who took off. There was no hint of foul play.”

“Until now,” Oren said. Then: “Thank you, Wilde. I appreciate your cooperation. I’ll look into all this. And I’ll help you as much as I can. We both want to find Peter Bennett.”

Oren’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID.

“Shit. It’s Hester.”

Wilde rose. There was more to say to Oren, about how Oren had let Wilde down, how Wilde had considered Oren one of the few people in this world he could trust, how that trust was now shattered for good. But now was not the time. He headed for the door.

“You better answer it.”