The Match (Wilde, #2)(66)

He picked up his phone and hit Hester’s number. She answered on the third ring.

“Articulate.”

“I’m in Central Park and being followed,” Wilde said.

Wilde and Rola took the path to the left of the fountain and crossed Bow Bridge, heading into the thicker bush of the Ramble.

“You think they’re going to make an arrest?”

“Yes.”

“Pin me your location.”

“Rola is with me.”

“Have her pin me too. Let me do a little research. I’ll call you right back.”

He and Rola had entered via West 72nd Street, not far from the garage where Rola had parked. The police—or whoever this was—would have their greatest presence there because they would have figured that Wilde and Rola would talk while strolling through the park and then return to the garage. That assumption would have been correct if Wilde hadn’t spotted them. So now, as they headed up the twisty paths of the Ramble and farther away from that epicenter, it would be harder for the tails to keep up.

“Has to be about the McAndrews murder, no?” Rola said.

“Don’t know.”

“Could they have found something else linking you to the crime?”

“Doubtful.”

His phone buzzed. It was Hester.

“Don’t surrender,” Hester said.

“That bad?”

“Yes,” Hester said. “Can you get to my office?”

“I think so.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Do you trust Tim?” Wilde asked.

“With my life.”

He told her what he hoped to do. Rola listened too and nodded along. They picked up their pace. They didn’t want to stay in the Ramble for too long. The police might circle them and grab them in there. The good news was the wooded area had a fair amount of people. They’d already passed two large bird-watching groups. Would the police risk an arrest with that many people around? Unlikely. They’d wait until he was more in a clearing, like near Rola’s car.

Rola said, “Woman with gray hoodie and white Adidas?”

Wilde nodded as they both pin-dropped their location to Hester. Hester in turn pin-dropped Tim’s. From what Wilde could see, it would take Tim approximately fifteen minutes to get to the rendezvous stop. Time to stall. He went over his plan with Rola. Like most decent plans, this one was frighteningly simple. He needed them to think that he and Rola were just talking. He made sure they stayed in places where there were plenty of pedestrians, so whoever was following them couldn’t make a move. He also tried to duck in and out of tree-lined paths, figuring that they probably had someone watching him from long range and it would be hard to see him that way.

“Guy with blue baseball cap and sunglasses who keeps pretending to study his phone,” Rola said.

Wilde nodded.

They headed north past the Delacorte Theater with its horseshoe-shaped seating, home of the famed Shakespeare in the Park and the spectacular stage backdrop of Turtle Pond.

Rola said, “Remember when we saw The Tempest here?”

He did. They’d been in high school then, and a foster-kid foundation had secured tickets for the “underserved” in north Bergen County. He’d sat in that very theater with Rola by his side. They were living in the Brewer house together at the time, and they’d both expected to be somewhat bored—Shakespeare in the Park?—but the production, with that Turtle Pond backdrop, mesmerized them.

“Young woman with the ponytail and North Face backpack.”

“You’re good,” he said.

“So young. She must be new.”

“Could be.”

“Oh, and the businessman with the newspaper. Newspaper. That’s old-school.”

“I missed him, but don’t point him out to me.”

“Sheesh, Wilde, do you think I’m an amateur?”

“No.”

“I’ve been doing this longer than you have.”

“You’re right,” Wilde said. He stopped for a second and looked at the Delacorte Theater. He remembered The Tempest so well. Patrick Stewart of Star Trek fame had played Prospero. Carrie Preston had been Miranda, Bill Irwin and John Pankow had been hilarious as Trinculo and Stephano.

“Did you keep the program?” Wilde asked.

“From The Tempest? You know I did.”

He nodded. Rola saved everything. “I’m really sorry,” Wilde said.

“For what?”

“For not always being there,” he said. “I love you. You’re my sister. You’ll always be my sister.”

“Wilde?”

“What?”

“Are you dying?”

He smiled. It was an odd thing to be thinking about, in the vortex of all this weirdness, but perhaps that was the only time he could be honest with himself. In the quiet, it was easy to push away and bottle up. In a storm of chaos, it was sometimes easier for Wilde to put himself in the eye and see the obvious.

“I know that you love me,” Rola said.

“I know that you know.”

“Still,” she said, “it’s nice to hear. Do you plan on vanishing again?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you do, send me a text once a week. That’s all I ask. If you don’t, I know you don’t love me.”