The Match

Chapter Eight

The mailing address for PB&J was a luxury Manhattan condo on the seventy-eighth floor of a gleaming skyscraper simply called Sky, located on Central Park South near the Plaza Hotel. The high-rise was fourteen hundred feet tall, making it the second tallest residential building in New York City.

“Not just rich,” Rola said. “Stanky rich.”

“Stanky?”

“I learned that word on Urban Slang.”

Wilde didn’t even want to know. “Does PB&J own the condo?”

“Don’t know. Right now, I just got it as a mailing address.”

“You can’t figure out who owns it?”

“No sales figures reported, but here’s the thing: Apartments in that building start at ten million.”

“Dollars?”

“No, pesetas,” Rola countered. “Of course, dollars. The penthouse duplex on the top floor is on the market for seventy-five million.”

Wilde rubbed his face and checked the time. “I bet I could drive there in an hour.”

“Forty-six minutes if you leave now, according to Waze,” Rola said.

“I’ll see if I can borrow Laila’s car.”

“Oooooo,” Rola said, mockingly drawing out the word in a singsong voice. “You’re with Laila?”

“And Matthew,” Wilde said. “And Hester was here too.”

“Don’t get defensive.”

“I’m not.”

“I like Laila,” Rola said. “I like her a lot.”

“She has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, but you know what you might have?”

“What?”

“An uber-wealthy relative who lives in Sky. Call me when you find out more.”

Wilde headed for the stairs and called up. Matthew came crashing down, high-fived Wilde without breaking stride, and made his way to the door. “Later!” Matthew shouted before slamming the door behind him.

Wilde stood there for a moment. From the top of the stairs, Laila said, “He’s grown up.”

“Yep.”

“Sucks.”

“Yep.”

“He’s spending the night with his girlfriend.”

“He told me.”

“I swore I wouldn’t be that mother, but...”

“I get it.” Wilde turned to face her. “Can I borrow your car?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll bring it back tonight.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t need it until noon.”

“Okay.”

“You know where the key is.”

Wilde nodded. “Thank you.”

“Good night, Wilde.”

“Good night, Laila.”

She turned toward her home office. Wilde grabbed the key from the basket by the door. Laila had traded in her BMW for a black Mercedes-Benz SL 550 — the same kind of car Darryl drove. He frowned at that, flipped the radio onto a classic rock station, and drove toward the city. The traffic across the George Washington Bridge was shockingly light. Wilde took the upper level and slowed in the right lane. Even from here, more than a hundred blocks north of Central Park South, he could make out Sky jutting into the clouds.

He parked in the lot under the Park Lane Hotel. Sky was a pure, emotionless glass tower. The lobby was all gleaming crystal and white and chrome. During the ride, Wilde had wondered about how to approach this, what he could really hope to accomplish by coming here. He entered.

A male security guard looked at Wilde as though he’d been phlegmed out of a vagrant’s throat. “Food deliveries are in the back.”

Wilde held up his empty hands. “Do you see me carrying food?”

A well-dressed woman who’d been behind the front desk came out and said, “May I help you?”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Apartment seventy-eight, please.”

The receptionist shared a knowing glance with the security guard.

“Your name?”

“WW.”

“Pardon?”

“Tell them it’s WW.”

She flicked another look at the guard. Wilde tried to read their expressions. A building like this would have tight security. That was hardly a surprise. Even if he somehow got past this guard, there were two others by the elevators. Their expressions and mannerisms seemed born of something more akin to weariness and resignation than alarm or worry. It was as though they had been here before, played this role repeatedly, and were just going through the motions.

The receptionist went back to the desk and picked up the phone. She held the receiver to her ear for maybe a minute and said nothing. Then she came back over and said, “No one is home.”

“That’s odd. PB told me to come over.”

Both the guard and receptionist said nothing.

“PB is my cousin,” Wilde tried.

“Uh-huh,” the guard said, as though he’d heard the same thing a hundred times before. “Aren’t you a little old for this?”

“For what?”

The receptionist said, “Frank.”

Frank the Guard shook his head. “Perhaps it’s time you left, uh” — small eye roll — “WW.”

“Can I leave him a message?” Wilde asked.

“Who?”

“PB.”

They both stared at him.

“You realize,” the receptionist said, “we can neither confirm nor deny who lives in this building.”

He tried to read their faces. Something odd was up.

“So can I leave a note or not?”

Wilde was not sure what he would write. The simple answer was to explain that he was the WW from the DNA website and put one of the untraceable phone numbers. But did he want to do that? Did he want to put himself on the radar like that? Now that he thought about it, what was he doing here? He didn’t know PB. He wasn’t responsible for him. Wilde had spent his entire life just fine not knowing all the answers to the mystery of who he was.

What was he doing here?

“Of course,” the receptionist said and fetched a pen and paper. “May I see an ID please.”

He had one under the alias of Jonathan Carlson, but that would just lead to questions about WW and his being a cousin, and really, what was the point? Did he want to kill a perfectly good alias for this?

He did not.

“I’ll try his cell later,” Wilde said.

“Yeah,” Frank said, “you do that.”

Wilde headed west on Central Park South. Some might think he would be uncomfortable on the streets of Manhattan, the so-called Boy from the Woods, but it was actually the opposite. He loved New York City. He loved the streets, the sounds, the lights, the life. Was that a contradiction? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was the change that won him over. Perhaps, in the same way you can’t have an up without a down or a dark without a light, you couldn’t appreciate the rural without the urban. Perhaps it was because this city, crowded and massive as it might be, left you alone, let you stroll and observe in solitude while surrounded by throngs.

Perhaps Wilde needed to shut down the philosophizing and grab a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant at the Maison Kayser on Columbus Circle.

He stopped at an ATM on the way and picked up his daily max of eight hundred dollars. He had a plan of sorts: Wait for one of the employees, like the security guard or the receptionist, to get off work and bribe them for information on the occupant of the apartment. Did he think it would work? He did not. The guard seemed more likely to go for the bribe than the receptionist, but that could be sexism talking.

He crossed to the park side of the street and set up near the stone wall where he could keep a view for exiting employees. He drank his coffee. It was fantastic. He took a bite out of the chocolate croissant and wondered why he didn’t leave the woods more often. He wondered what PB had wanted, what had made PB so desperate, what had led a man who lives in this gleaming tower to reach out to a total stranger, even if that stranger shared some DNA.

Wilde had been standing there for an hour when his phone rang.

It was Laila.

He picked up. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

There was silence.

“Matthew is gone for the night,” she said.

“I know.”

“Wilde?”

“Yes, Laila?”

“When you’re done with whatever you’re doing, come over.”

He didn’t have to be told twice.

When they were spent, Wilde fell into the deepest of sleeps. He woke a little before six a.m. Laila slept next to him. He watched her for a few moments, then he rolled onto his back, put his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling. Laila liked luxuriant white bedsheets with an infinite thread count. The expense seemed obscene, but there were times, like right now, when Wilde got it.

Laila rolled and rested her hand on his chest. They were both naked.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

Laila moved in closer. He pulled her tight.

“So,” she said, “Costa Rica.”

“What about it?”

“It didn’t work out?”

“It worked out,” Wilde said. “It just didn’t last.”

Wilde loved her. Laila loved him. They’d tried to be more domestic in the beginning. It hadn’t worked. That was his fault. Some blamed the ghost of David — that had been there initially, sure — or fear of commitment. It wasn’t that. Not really. Wilde wasn’t built for what most would consider a normal relationship. Laila needed more. The cycle went like this: Laila would start a new relationship with some guy. Wilde would leave her be and wish the relationship well. He wanted her happy. But the relationship would eventually peter out, not because Laila held some kind of candle for Wilde but because she still couldn’t get over the death of her soulmate David. All other relationships came up short. So Laila would break up with the guy and then she’d get lonely, and there, alone in the woods waiting, was safe, convenient, can’t-commit Wilde.

Rinse, repeat.

Wilde had given the “normal relationship” mode one last try in Costa Rica with another woman and her daughter. It had gone surprisingly well, this domesticity, until it didn’t. All relationships die, he rationalized. His died faster, that’s all.

“What time is it?” Laila asked.

“It’s almost six.”

“I doubt Matthew will be home before noon.”

“But I should get going anyway.”

“Yes.”

Part of him wanted to ask about Darryl; most of him did not. He slipped out of the luxuriant silk sheets. He could feel her eyes on him as he padded for the shower. Being Mr. Eco-Living was all fine and good, but there were few luxuries he enjoyed as much as the strong water pressure and seemingly endless hot water of Laila’s shower. He hoped that she would join him, but that didn’t happen. When he got out, Laila was sitting on the edge of the bed in a robe.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” Then: “I love you, Wilde.”

“I love you too, Laila.”

“Was I part of the reason you went to Costa Rica?”

He had never lied to her. “Part, yes.”

“For my sake? Or your sake?”

“Yes.”

Laila smiled. “You stayed with her a long time.”

“With them,” Wilde corrected. “Yes.”

“It should all be simpler, shouldn’t it?”

Wilde slipped into his clothes. He sat next to her on the bed and tied his sneakers. The silence was comfortable. There was more to say, but it could wait. He rose. She rose. They held on to each other for a long time. There was a lot of history here. David was in the room too. He had always been. Neither denied it, but neither minded his presence anymore. Their sleeping together had stopped feeling like a betrayal years ago.

Wilde didn’t say he would call. He didn’t say she should either. They both understood the situation. The next move would be up to her.

Wilde headed downstairs alone and crossed the family room. When he pushed open the kitchen door, he was surprised to see Matthew. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal.

Matthew glared at Wilde. “Looks like it runs in the family.”

“What?”

“Sleeping around, cheating, whatever.”

Wilde did not reply to that. His mother would explain or not explain as she saw fit. It wasn’t his place. He started for the back door. “I’ll see you around.”

“Don’t you want to know what I mean by ‘runs in the family’?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“It’s simple,” Matthew said. “I know who PB is.”