The Match

Chapter Thirty-Nine

There was nothing more to learn from Jenn Cassidy, so Wilde left their room. He had paid a hefty price for a room of his own, so he figured that he might as well use it. He lay down on the hotel bed and stared at the ceiling. Shakespeare had written, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” It was a bit of a stretch, but perhaps Jenn had a point. Peter had signed up for this life. Fame is a drug. Celebrity is what everyone wants — power and riches and the good life. Jenn was losing that. So was Peter. So she cut him loose in a way that would save herself.

But that didn’t tell him where Peter Bennett was.

Wilde now knew that Peter hadn’t cheated on Jenn or roofied Marnie — but he’d known that before he confronted Jenn. The fact that she’d orchestrated the whole thing didn’t change the big picture much. It didn’t tell Wilde who killed Henry McAndrews and Katherine Frole and Martin Spirow. It didn’t tell Wilde who his mother was or why she’d ended up abandoning him in the woods.

In short, all he learned was that a reality star had lied. Hardly earth-shattering stuff.

Sleep wouldn’t come, so Wilde headed out onto Columbus Circle and made his way south. He cut through Times Square, just because, and worked his way down to Washington Square Park. The walk was a little under three miles. Wilde took his time. He stopped for coffee and a croissant. He liked the city in the morning. He didn’t know why. There was something about eight million souls getting ready for their day that appealed to him. Perhaps because his normal life — a life Jenn would undoubtedly find unworthy — had always been the opposite.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Laila. He couldn’t stop thinking of what this walk would be like with her by his side.

Wilde arrived at Washington Square Park. Central Park was his favorite, but this place was New York City in all its eccentric glory. The marble arch was done in the Roman triumphal style, designed by famed architect Stanford White, who was murdered in 1906 at the Madison Square Theatre by jealous and “mentally unstable” (according to his defense) millionaire Harry Kendall Thaw over Thaw’s wife, Evelyn Nesbit. It was the first “Trial of the Century.” The arch contained two marble figures of Washington in relief — Washington at War on one column, and Washington at Peace on the other. In both sculptures, Washington was flanked by two figures. In Washington at War, the two figures represented Fame and Valor, Fame seeming an ironic choice to Wilde, especially when he thought about Peter and Jenn, while the two figures flanking Washington at Peace were Wisdom and Justice.

As Wilde stood and stared up at the Washington at Peace sculpture, he sensed someone moving next to him. A female voice said, “Look closely at the figure on the far right.”

The woman was in her early sixties. She was short, stocky, wearing a tan jacket, black turtleneck, blue jeans.

Wilde said, “Okay.”

“See the inscribed book he’s holding above Washington’s head?”

Wilde nodded and read the inscription out loud. “EXITUS ACTA PROBAT.”

“Latin,” the woman said.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Sarcasm. I love it. Do you know what it means?”

“‘The outcome justifies the means,’” Wilde said.

The woman nodded, adjusting her tortoise-framed glasses. “Amazing when you think about it. You build this giant monument to the father of our country. And what quote do you use to honor him and his work and his memory? Basically, ‘The ends justify the means.’ And even stranger, who is giving George Washington this somewhat amoral advice?” She pointed to the figure over Washington’s left shoulder. “Justice. Justice isn’t telling us to be fair or honest or truthful or law-abiding or impartial. Justice is telling our first president and all the park’s millions of visitors that the ends justify the means.”

Wilde turned to her. “Are you RJ?”

“Only if you are PB.”

“I’m not PB,” Wilde said. “But you know that already.”

The woman nodded. “I do indeed.”

“And you’re not RJ.”

“That’s also correct.”

“Do you want to tell me who you are?” Wilde asked.

“You first.”

“My guess is,” Wilde continued, “PB reached out to you — or should I say RJ? — before he closed down his account. Then he disappeared on RJ the same way he disappeared on everybody else. When I reached out last night, it made RJ curious.”

“All true,” the woman said.

“So who are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m a colleague of RJ’s. Do you know who PB really is?”

“Yes. You don’t?”

“No,” she said. “He insisted on anonymity. We told him the truth. I shouldn’t say ‘we.’ I wasn’t really involved. It was my colleague.”

“RJ?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s your colleague from Memphis.”

“How did you know that?”

Wilde did not reply.

“What do you say we cut to the chase?” the woman asked. “My colleague told PB what he wanted to know. In exchange, your friend PB promised to cooperate.”

“But he didn’t.”

“That’s right. Instead, he closed down his account. We never heard from him again.”

“What did you tell him?” Wilde asked.

“Oh, I don’t think we will play that game again,” the woman said. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...” She stopped. “What’s your real name?”

“I’m Wilde.”

The woman grinned. “I’m Danielle.” She took out a police badge. “NYPD Detective Danielle Sheer, retired. Do you want to cooperate with us?”

“Is this an official investigation?”

Danielle Sheer shook her head. “I said I was retired, didn’t I? I’m helping a colleague.”

“The colleague from Memphis.”

“That’s right.”

“And PB promised to help him too.”

“I didn’t say it was a him.”

“Sorry. Is it a her?”

“No, it’s a him. I’ll tell you what, Wilde. You give me PB’s real name, and I’ll spill all. Believe me, you’ll be interested.”

“And if I don’t give the name?”

“We say buh-bye.”

“Peter Bennett.”

“Hold on.” Danielle typed something into her phone. “I’m just texting the name to my colleague.”

“Do you want to tell me about RJ now?”

She finished texting and smiled up into the morning sun. “Do you know you can go inside this arch? There’s a door on the east side of the other column. It’s not open to the public, but when I was a cop, well, there were perks. You can actually go in and walk up these spiral stairs and stand on top of the arch. It’s a one-of-a-kind view.”

“Detective Sheer?”

“Retired. Call me Danielle.”

“Danielle, what’s going on?”

“What’s your interest in this, Wilde?”

“It’s a long story. But in short, I’m looking for Peter Bennett. We matched as relatives on the same site.”

“Interesting. But you didn’t match RJ?”

“No.”

“So this is kind of a dead end for you. I mean, in terms of your search for relatives. And in truth, I’m here because my colleague doesn’t need PB anymore. It’s too late.”

Wilde thought about it. “For some reason, RJ didn’t want anyone to know his name — but he wanted possible matches to see his age.”

“You have a theory on that, Wilde?”

“You’re law enforcement.”

“Retired.”

“But your colleague isn’t. I’m thinking your colleague is posing as someone else and using a DNA site to find relatives. Like in the Golden State Killer case. The killer left his DNA at a murder scene. The cops put it into DNA databases, like he was just any other guy searching for family. When the cops got matches — genetic relatives — they used that info to track down Joseph DeAngelo.”

Danielle nodded. “That’s pretty close. Have you heard of a man named Paul Sinclair?”

“No.”

“How about Pastor Paul of the Church of True Christian Foundation?”

Wilde shook his head.

“He ran a religious community in the Memphis area for almost forty years before dying peacefully in his sleep last month. He lived ninety-two healthy years. Karma might be an actual thing, but it’s not a thing down here on earth.”

“Meaning?”

“He raped and impregnated a lot of his parishioners. Young parishioners. He denied it, of course, but a bunch of people online realized that they had the same father. So my colleague RJ from the Tennessee State Police got Pastor Paul’s DNA and put it in online databases. He wanted to see how many people he’d fathered. In this database alone, he found seventeen. Of those, twelve had been put up for adoption. The other five had been told someone else was their father. Like your friend PB. None knew the truth.”

“So PB’s biological father is—”

“Pastor Paul. Does that help you in your search?”

Wilde thought about it. “I think it does.”

Wilde walked back uptown toward Hester’s place. When he arrived, Hester said, “Jenn Cassidy has been looking for you. She said it was important.”

“Do you have her number?”

Hester did. Wilde called her back.

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone,” Jenn said when she answered.

“What’s the matter?”

“Marnie is missing. Everyone thinks she just took off because of all the bad press, but we share locations with a phone app, you know, just in case. Her phone is off. It’s never off.”

“Maybe she really did—”

“No, Wilde, she didn’t. There’s no credit card activity, nothing. Marnie wouldn’t run away. She’s also not savvy enough.”

Wilde closed his eyes. “When was the last time anyone saw her?”

“When she sneaked out of her apartment, I guess. No one’s sure.”

“Can you check her messages? Her texts? Her emails?”

“Don’t you think I tried that? There’s nothing.”

“Where are you?”

“My apartment at Sky.”

“Hold on a second.”

Wilde beckoned for Hester to hand him her phone. When she did, he dialed Rola. “I need you to send your best person over to Jenn Cassidy’s apartment at Sky. Her sister is missing.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Aren’t you still in Vegas?”

“I got a ride on a private flight to Teterboro. We touched down half an hour ago. I’ll head there now.”

Wilde put her on hold and clicked back to Jenn. “Stay in place,” he told her. “My friend Rola Naser is on her way. Tell the front desk to let her up as soon as she arrives.”

He hung up and called Vicky Chiba.

“Hello?”

“Is Silas there?”

“He just took off. He’s picking up a load in Elizabeth and then he heads to Georgia. Why, what’s up?”

“I wanted you both to know.”

“Know what?”

“Jenn.”

“What about her?”

“She set it all up.”

Silence. Then: “What are you talking about?”

“Jenn set Peter up. She hired McAndrews.”

“No...”

“She took the compromising photographs. She tricked Marnie into lying about him.”

“No,” Vicky said again, but her voice was weaker this time. So Wilde kept talking. He told Vicky the whole story. He told her in his calmest, most detached voice.

Her cries turned into wails.

When they finally hung up, Wilde closed his eyes and leaned back. He took a deep breath.

Hester said, “Wilde?”

“I think I have it figured out.”