The Match (Wilde, #2)(78)

We are in my car. I again stole a license plate and then marked it up so that it would be nearly unreadable. I’m wearing a disguise. So had Marnie. Fans and even some press had gathered around her building after Jenn’s post, so she sneaked out a back exit. If the police decided to do a hardcore investigation, I assume that they would still be able to pick her up on various street cams until the subway car. Would they be able to see her get on the 1 train at 72nd Street and head downtown? Probably. Would they eventually spot her getting off on Christopher Street, walking three blocks, jumping into the back of this car?

I don’t know.

It would take time. We have been brainwashed by television into thinking that law enforcement is nearly infallible. That is, I’ve learned, nonsense. They make mistakes. They take time to get and sift through information. They only have so many man-hours, and technology has its limits.

Murders still go unsolved.

That said, I realize that I only have a limited shelf life with all this. If I continue, I will get caught. To deny that would be foolish. I am parked in Manhattan near the West Side Highway. I found a quiet spot—quiet enough anyway. It was near a construction site and right now, no one is working. It didn’t take long.

She gets in. I turn. I fire three times into Marnie’s pathetic, lying face.

Daring? Sure. But sometimes the best places to hide are in plain sight.

Marnie’s phone was in her hand when I shot her. From the driver’s seat, I stretch back and pick it up off the floor. I try to unlock it via facial recognition by holding it up to her face, but with the damage done to it, the phone won’t open. Too bad. I had hoped to perhaps text Jenn a message pretending to be Marnie and stating that I was going away for a few weeks until things cooled down. That doesn’t look possible now.

Could they trace her phone to this spot?

I’m not sure. I will destroy it—but does the technology exist so that they can see when and where she headed out of her apartment? My guess is, the answer is yes. Okay, fine. I have a plan for that too.

I throw a blanket over her body, though I don’t really think CCTV or a bystander could look into the back window and see much. The blood did not reach the windows, so I don’t have to bother wiping them down. I drive now through the Lincoln Tunnel and take the Boulevard East exit toward Weehawken. I can’t resist the small detour and make the almost hidden right turn onto Hamilton Avenue. The view of Manhattan from this side of the river—the New Jersey side—is breathtaking. The skyline is laid out in all its glory. There is no view of New York City like the ones across the river in New Jersey.

But that’s not why I like to drive by here.

There, on this unassuming street with unassuming homes, is an unassuming stone bust atop a column. The bust is of Alexander Hamilton. A plaque next to it commemorates the famous Alexander Hamilton–Aaron Burr duel that resulted in Hamilton’s death. The plaque also notes that Hamilton’s son Philip died on these same dueling grounds three years earlier. Even before this tale became well-known due to the musical, I loved to walk these grounds. I never understood why. I thought back then it was the skyline view, but of course, that wasn’t it. It was the ghosts. It was the blood. It was the death. Men came here to “defend their honor” and often died in the duels. Blood was spilled here, maybe right here, maybe right where you are enjoying a leisurely stroll along the boulevard and perchance happen upon this display.

But creepier still, behind the bust of Alexander Hamilton, almost hidden by the marble column, is a large brown-red boulder. An inscription carved into the Manhattan-facing side reads:

upon this stone rested

the head of the patriot

soldier, statesman, and

jurist alexander hamilton

after the duel with

aaron burr.



I was always drawn to that. Then again, who isn’t? The rock is enclosed by a jail-bar fence, but the separation between the bars is wide. It is easy to reach your hand through the bars and touch the rock. Think about that. You can place your hand on the very rock where, if you believe the legend, Alexander Hamilton lay mortally wounded more than two centuries ago.

It is morbid and macabre, but I find this fascinating. I have always found this fascinating. And the truth is, a truth that is both obvious and unspoken, you do too.

We all do.

That is why we have memorials like this, no? It isn’t really a warning of a more dangerous time, though that’s what we tell ourselves. It appeals to us on a much more primitive level. It turns us on. Perhaps, in hindsight, it was my gateway drug. You hear this often enough. One drug is a gateway to the next and the next until you’re a strung-out heroin junkie.

Maybe it’s the same with murder?

I don’t slow down. I just want to drive past this modest monument and the duel grounds. To soak in this feeling. That’s all. Bonus: If the police can somehow trace the exact movements of Marnie’s phone, this small detour, though only minutes out of my way, will make them wonder about Marnie’s mental state. That could help me.

I make the turn back onto Boulevard East and drive to Newark Airport. The quietest terminal today is Terminal B. When I get to the drop-off area, I take out my hammer and smash Marnie’s phone to pieces. When her movements are traced, it will lead to an airport. That will help. I realize that there are probably cameras watching. Eventually they may reach the stage where they look to see whether she got out. But again, that will take time.