The Match (Wilde, #2)(80)

He called Vicky Chiba. “Is Silas there yet?”

“No.”

“When do you expect him?”

“He got delayed. Probably another hour, hour and a half.”

“You still plan on telling him about Peter being adopted?”

“Yes. You’ll be here for that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m so grateful. Did you learn any more about Peter?”

“I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

“Okay, I’ll text you if I get any updates from Silas.”

Wilde hung up. They were still waiting on two more approvals from the DNA websites. He tried to put it together. Peter Bennett finds out that he was adopted. He signs up for a bunch of DNA sites to see whether he can find matches. Okay, fine. That all makes sense. He gets one close match—his own brother, Silas. Is that when he realizes he knows enough? That doesn’t seem possible. Did he find someone else? Why did he close it all down once he found the truth? Did he learn something he wanted no one else to know about?

Wilde’s phone double-buzzed for an incoming phone call. Odd. The double buzz indicated someone not in his rather small contact list. No one else had this number. No one else knew this number. He was about to send the call to his voicemail when he spotted the caller ID:

PETER BENNETT.

Wilde stood and walked toward a corner as he brought the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“We need to meet.”





Chapter

Thirty-Four



When Hester got back to her apartment, Oren was there and waiting. He greeted her with a hug. Hester loved his hugs. He was a big man and he hugged big. It made her feel small and safe and comforted. Who doesn’t love that? She closed her eyes and inhaled. He smelled like a man, whatever nonsense that meant, and even that made her feel happy and protected.

“How did it go?” Oren asked.

“The jury remains deadlocked. Judge Greiner wants to give it another day or two.”

They ended the hug and headed into the living room. Hester’s decorating style could best be described as Early American Frenetic. When she and Ira had first moved into Manhattan, they had “temporarily” filled the apartment with too many knickknacks and furniture from the house in Westville. The furniture didn’t go, of course, not in size, shape, color, anything, but there would be plenty of time to change it.

Hester never had.

“If the jury comes back deadlocked,” Oren said, “do you think they’ll prosecute him again?”

“Who knows.”

She sat on the couch. Oren poured her some wine. She was tired. That never happened to her before, but more and more, she could feel a certain heaviness in her bones.

“When this is over,” she said, “I want to take a vacation.”

Oren lifted an eyebrow. “You?”

“Where should we go?”

“Wherever you want, my love.”

“I used to hate vacations,” Hester said.

“I know.”

“Work never tired me. It energized me. The more I was in the mix, the more alive I felt. When Ira and I would go away, I’d end up feeling more exhausted. I’d get antsy. If I sat on a beach chair, I wouldn’t get energized—I’d want a nap.”

“An object at rest,” Oren said, “stays at rest.”

“Exactly. If you slow me down, I slow down. If you keep me moving…”

“And now?”

“Now I want to go away with you. I’m tired.”

“Any clue why?”

“I don’t even want to think about it, but it might be age.”

Oren didn’t reply to that right away. He took a sip of the wine and said, “Maybe it’s the Levine case.”

“How’s that?”

“Historically you’ve never been a fan of self-defense cases. I know it’s your job to offer the best defense possible, truth be damned—”

“Whoa, slow down. Truth be damned?”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean you have to leave your personal feelings out of it. You need to provide the best defense possible, no matter what your personal feelings.”

“What makes you think I’m not doing that with Richard Levine?”

“He executed a man,” Oren said. “We both know that.”

“He shot a Nazi.”

“Who was not an imminent threat.”

“Nazis are always an imminent threat.”

“So you’re okay with what he did?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s okay to shoot a Nazi,” Oren said.

“Yes.”

“How about a Klansman?”

“Also okay.”

“Where are you drawing the line at who you get to shoot?”

“At Nazis and Klansmen.”

“No one else?”

“I’d prefer they get punched. I’m a big fan of punching Nazis in the face.”

“Your client didn’t punch the Nazi in the face.”

“No, but if he had, he’d have been arrested too, and I’d still be defending him. If your sicko-psycho personal beliefs include exterminating those who are not of your race, I’m okay with someone putting you down like the horrid creature you are.”