The Match (Wilde, #2)(79)

With the phone now rendered untraceable, I circle the airport and visit the other terminals, again just to confuse. I head onto Route 78 and take it west. I’ve rented a garage storage unit in Chatham. With my disguise in place, I keep my head down, get out of the car, pull open the roll-up door. I get back in my car, drive it into the unit, and then I shut the door. The storage facility has a powerful air-conditioning system. I made sure already that it was turned up full blast. I’ve read more than my share about rotting corpses and odors. I have time. Days at least. Probably more. Then I can find a way to get rid of the body. I do a light cleanup now and leave Marnie in the backseat. If I had dumped her body, the police would surely and immediately link her to the other murders. Ah, but if poor, beleaguered Marnie is just missing, with all the turmoil in her life, it will be more than plausible that she has decided to run away and hide for a little while. I wasn’t sure how long that would last, but I knew the old credo: No body, no murder.

These moves should buy me days, if not weeks. That’s all I need, really.

There is still work to be done.





Chapter

Thirty-Three



Wilde looked over Matthew’s shoulder at User32894, a twenty-three percent DNA match with Peter Bennett on the MeetYourFamily website.

“Did you check to see if User32894 and Peter had any communication?” Wilde asked.

“No messages at all. According to the website protocols, when you delete your account, all messaging is irretrievably gone. But in case you’re wondering what twenty-three percent means…” Matthew clicked on the link and an explanation came up:

If you are approximately a 25% match (between a 17%-34%), it means you are genetically related in the following ways: Grandparent/Grandchild

Aunt/Uncle

Niece/Nephew

Half Sibling





“Weird they don’t give you more of a breakdown than that,” Matthew said.

“That’s how DNA works,” Sutton told him. “We learned all this in Biology with Mr. Richardson, don’t you remember? One hundred percent meant an identical twin. Fifty percent would be a sibling or a mother—your father has a little less, like forty-eight percent or something. I don’t remember why.”

“Still weird,” Matthew said. “If Wilde here gets, say, a fifty percent match, he won’t know if it’s his mother, father, full sibling…Wait, when you found your father in Vegas, how did you know? I mean, when you first saw it on the DNA site, how did you know it wasn’t your mother or a brother or something?”

“I didn’t at first,” Wilde said. “But then I found out he was a male more than twenty years older.”

“Could still be a sibling.”

Wilde hadn’t really considered that. “I guess that’s true.”

“It’s not likely,” Sutton said. “If you’re fifty percent, it means full sibling, not half. I mean, sure, mothers give birth over a twenty-year span, but the numbers are probably low. The far higher likelihood is that it’s your father.”

“Okay, true,” Matthew countered, “but let’s face it. Nothing about Wilde falls into the normal spectrum. He was abandoned in the woods when he was too young to remember. What do you think, Wilde? Could that guy you met be your brother instead?”

“I never really thought about it,” Wilde said.

And he hadn’t. Of course, Sutton was right. Odds were strong that Daniel Carter, matching at approximately fifty percent, was his father. But women can give birth at awfully young ages—whenever ovulation starts. Let’s say his mother had been sixteen or seventeen when Daniel Carter was born, even in her early twenties, she could still have easily birthed Wilde too.

He picked up the phone and called Rola.

“Anything on Daniel Carter?”

“Nothing yet.”

“When you say ‘nothing’—”

“I mean just that. Nothing, nada, niente, nichts, nic, bubkes, so here’s the headline: Daniel Carter is not his real name, Wilde.”

“The man has a family, a business.”

“DC Dream House Construction. It’s owned by a shell corporation. No one is answering his home phone. No one at the business will talk about where he is. No one is answering the door at the house.”

“He has daughters.”

“We don’t want a local PI I don’t know well barging into their lives yet. Not until we know more. It’s early, Wilde.”

“Get your best people on it, Rola.”

“I got my absolute best.”

“Thanks.”

“Me.”

“What?”

“I’m flying to Vegas.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. The kids are driving me crazy anyway. I need a break. A little blackjack. A little discovering who abandoned a child in the woods. A little one-armed bandit. Maybe a magic show. And Wilde?”

“Yep.”

“Whatever is going on with your bio-dad and the feds? It’s seriously messed up.”

“Daniel Carter might not be my dad.”

Wilde quickly explained about the DNA percentages. Something about genetic-relationship discussions kept niggling at the base of his brain. He was missing something. But other things were starting to click. He remembered his phone call with Silas Bennett. Silas had said that someone matched him at twenty-three percent on MeetYourFamily.com. Now that Wilde could see that Peter Bennett had also gotten a twenty-three percent match, it seemed somewhat logical to assume that the two “brothers,” one of whom was supposedly adopted, were genetically related, most probably half siblings. It wasn’t definite, but there were ways Wilde could confirm that hypothesis.