“Oh, she’s” — Ava frowned and made air quotes with her fingers — “‘recovered.’ Remarried a rich guy. Naomi says she lives in a fancy town house on Park Avenue.”
“Has Naomi said anything to you lately? Anything that might help?”
“No.” Then: “Now that you mention it.”
“What?”
“She seemed a little... better. More relaxed. Calm.”
Wilde didn’t say anything, but he didn’t like that.
“Now it’s your turn, Wilde. Why are you asking?”
“Someone is worried about her.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say.”
“Matthew Crimstein.”
He said nothing.
“Like I said, Wilde, I didn’t know who you were when we met.”
“But you know now.”
“Yes.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. He reached out and took her hands in his. She pulled away. He let her. “Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“You need to find her.”
Wilde walked back to the condo parking lot. He drove Laila’s BMW twenty yards to a dumpster. Hester had been correct. Laila was a slob. A beautiful slob. She kept her own self meticulously neat and clean and freshly showered. But her surroundings did not follow suit. The backseat of her BMW had coffee cups and protein bar wrappers.
Wilde put the car in park and emptied it out. He wasn’t a germophobe, but he was glad that she had antibacterial lotion in the glove compartment. He looked back at Ava’s house. Would she call back the big guy with the bigger beard? Doubt it.
He didn’t regret his time with Ava. Not in the slightest. In fact, there had been a strange pang when he first saw her, something akin to... longing? Maybe it was justification or rationalization, but the fact that he couldn’t connect long term didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate new experiences with new people. He never wanted to hurt them, but maybe it was even worse to patronize them or hand them some bullshit line. He settled on being completely truthful, not sugarcoating it, not being too faux protective.
Wilde slept outside. Even on those nights.
It was hard to explain why, so sometimes he would leave a note, sneak back to the woods for a few hours, and then be back by the morning. Wilde couldn’t fall asleep when someone else was with him.
It was that simple.
Outside he dreamt a lot about his mother.
Or maybe it wasn’t his mother. Maybe it was another woman in that house with the red banister. He didn’t know. But in the dream, his mother — call her that for now — was beautiful, with long auburn hair and emerald eyes and the voice of an angel. Was this what his mother really looked like? The image was a bit too perfect, perhaps more delusion than reality. It could be something he just conjured up or had even seen on TV.
Memory makes demands that you often can’t keep. Memory is faulty because it insists on filling in the blanks.
His phone rang. It was Hester.
“Did you talk to Ava O’Brien?” Hester asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you proud of me for not prying about how you know her?”
“You’re the model of discretion.”
“So what did she say?”
Wilde filled her in. When he finished, she said, “That part about Naomi seeming calm. That’s not good.”
“I know,” Wilde said.
When people decide to end their lives, they often exhibit a sense of calm. The decision has been made. A weight, oddly enough, has been lifted.
“Well, I have news,” Hester said. “And it’s not good.”
Wilde waited.
“The mother called me back. She has no idea where Naomi is.”
“So the father lied,” Wilde said.
“Maybe.”
Either way, it wouldn’t hurt for Wilde to pay the dad a visit.
Someone called out to Hester. There was some commotion in the background.
“All okay?” he asked.
“I’m about to go live on air,” Hester said. “Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“We need to do something fast, agreed?”
“It could still be nothing.”
“Is that what your gut is telling you?”
“I don’t listen to my gut,” Wilde said. “I listen to the facts.”
“Bullshit.” Then: “Are the facts worried about this girl?”
“This girl,” he agreed. “And Matthew.”
There was more commotion.
“Gotta go, Wilde. We’ll talk soon.”
She hung up.
Hester sat at the news desk on a leather-backed stool, set a tad too high for her. Her toes barely touched the floor. The teleprompter was lined up and ready to roll. Lori, the on-duty hairstylist, was working some final touches, which involved two-finger plucking, while Bryan, the makeup artist, added some last-second concealer. The red countdown clock, which resembled the timer on a TV-drama bomb, indicated that they had under two minutes until air.
Her cohost for tonight played on his phone. Hester closed her eyes for a second, felt the makeup brush stroke her cheek, felt the fingers gently pull her hair into place. It was all oddly soothing.
When her phone vibrated, she opened her eyes with a sigh and shooed Lori and Bryan away. She normally wouldn’t take a call this close to going on air, but the caller ID told her it was her grandson.
“Matthew?”
“Did you find her yet?”
His voice was a desperate hush.
“Why are you whispering? Where are you?”
“At Crash’s house. Did you speak to Naomi’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She doesn’t know where Naomi is.”
Her grandson made a sound that might have been a groan.
“Matthew, what aren’t you telling us?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
His tone turned sullen. “Forget I asked, okay?”
“Not okay.”
One of the producers yelled, “Ten seconds to air.”
Her cohost pocketed his phone and sat up straight. He turned to Hester, saw she had the phone pressed against her ear, and said, “Uh, Hester? You’re doing the intro.”
The producer held up his hand to indicate five seconds. He tucked his thumb to show it was now four.
“I’ll call you back,” Hester said.
She put the phone on the table in front of her as the producer dropped his index finger.
Three seconds may seem like a very short time. In television terms, it’s not. Hester had time to glance at Allison Grant, her segment producer, and nod. Allison had time to make a face and nod back so as to indicate that she would comply with Hester’s request but she would do so reluctantly.
Still, Hester had prepared for this. There were times you investigated — and there were times you instigated.
It was time for the latter.
The producer finished his countdown and pointed at Hester.
“Good evening,” Hester said, “and welcome to this edition of Crimstein on Crime. Our lead story tonight is — what else? — upstart presidential candidate Rusty Eggers and the controversy surrounding his campaign.”
That part was on the teleprompter. The rest was not.
Hester took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a...
“But first, breaking news just coming in,” Hester said.
Her cohost frowned and turned toward her.
The thing was, Matthew was scared. That was what Hester couldn’t shake. Matthew was scared, and he had asked for her help. How could she not do all she could?
A photograph of Naomi Pine filled television screens across the country. It was the only photograph her producer Allison Grant had been able to find, and that had taken some doing. There was nothing on social media, which was really strange in today’s society, but Allison, who was as good as they came, dug up the website for the school photographer who took the official Sweet Water High portraits. Once Allison promised that they would keep the watermark with his logo on it, the photographer had agreed to let them use it on air.