The Match (Wilde, #2)(67)

They started east toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As they did, the crowd increased. They were almost out of the park now. That would leave them on Fifth Avenue and exposed if the police were ready and had a presence there. Wilde doubted that they would be ready, but once on Fifth Avenue, they picked up the pace and zig-zagged through the throngs. They ducked into the Met’s street-level “members only” entrance. Rola bought a membership every year to support the museum. She took her kids a lot. They passed security. As they crossed the corridor, Rola said, “Bye,” and got on the ticket line. Wilde didn’t miss a beat. He hit the stairwell and headed down to the underground parking garage. No one was behind him.

A minute later, Wilde was lying on the back floor of Hester’s limo. Tim pulled out.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the garage of Hester’s building. Hester was waiting for them.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Oren is upstairs in my office. He wants to talk to you.”





Chapter

Twenty-Six



Hester pointed to a chair. “Sit over there, please,” she said to Oren Carmichael. “Wilde, you sit over here next to me.”

Oren Carmichael moved to one side of the long conference table, Hester and Wilde on the other. They were in a glass-enclosed office atop the Manhattan skyline. This office was mostly used for legal depositions, and Hester had made sure that Oren sat where the deponent normally did. Wilde didn’t think this adversarial positioning was by accident.

“I need you both to listen to me,” Oren began. “We have a murdered cop—”

“Oren?” It was Hester.

“What?”

“Shh. Tell us why Wilde was being followed in the park.”

“Wait,” Wilde said, “he hasn’t told you?”

“Not yet. He just said it was bad.”

Wilde turned to Oren. “How bad?” he asked.

“Bad bad. But first I need you to tell me—”

“You don’t need anything first,” Hester snapped. “You broke my attorney-client privilege—”

“I told you, Hester. I didn’t break—”

“You did, damn it.” Wilde heard something different in Hester’s tone. The usual defiance was there, of course, but there was also a deep sadness. “Do you really not know what you did?”

Oren winced at the tone too, but he pushed through it. “I need you to listen to me. Both of you. Because this is huge. We have a murdered cop—”

“You keep saying that,” Hester interjected.

“What?”

“You keep saying ‘murdered cop.’ Murdered Cop. Why does it matter that he’s a cop?”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Why is a cop’s death more important than any citizen’s?”

“Really, Hester? That’s where you want to go with this?”

“Law enforcement should do their best for everyone, regardless of position or status. A murdered cop shouldn’t be any more a priority than any other citizen.”

Oren turned both palms to the ceiling. “Fine, cool, forget he’s a cop. It’s a murdered man. Happy? You”—he spun toward Wilde—“found the body.”

“I told you what I knew last night,” Wilde said.

“Correct,” Hester added. “And when was that exactly? Oh right, now I remember—right after your cop buddies kidnapped and tortured my client”—she raised a hand to silence him—“and don’t you dare tell me Wilde’s a friend, not a client, or you’ll regret it. By the way, I wouldn’t get so comfortable, mister. You’re an accomplice to what those men did to Wilde.”

That stung and it showed on Oren’s face.

“You are, Oren,” Hester continued, not letting up, and she looked heartbroken. “You can make a bunch of excuses, just like any criminal, but you gave them the information that led to the kidnapping and the assault. By the way, how did they know we’d be at Tony’s?”

“What?” Oren straightened up in his chair. “You don’t think—”

“Did you tell them?”

“Of course not.”

“So why were cops after Wilde in Central Park?”

“They weren’t cops,” Oren said.

“So who were they?” Wilde asked.

“FBI agents.”

Silence.

Hester sat back and crossed her arms. “You better explain.”

Oren let loose a long breath and nodded. “The ballistics came back on Henry McAndrews. He was shot with a nine-millimeter handgun. The Hartford tech guy put the report in the national database, and they got a hit. Another murder with the same gun. Check that, another recent murder.”

“How recent?” Wilde asked.

“Very. In the last two days.”

Wilde stayed on it. “So this would have been after Henry McAndrews?”

“Yes. The same gun that killed Henry McAndrews was used in another murder. But that’s not the headline.”

Hester gestured for him to continue. “We’re listening.”

“The victim,” Oren said, “was an FBI agent named Katherine Frole.” He looked at Hester. “So it’s not just a ‘murdered cop’ anymore. It’s also a murdered federal agent. In Fantasy Land, it might not make a difference that two law enforcement officers were gunned down, probably by the same killer. They should be treated the same as if two Average Joe Citizens were killed. But in the real world—”