The Match (Wilde, #2)(94)

Sleep wouldn’t come, so Wilde headed out onto Columbus Circle and made his way south. He cut through Times Square, just because, and worked his way down to Washington Square Park. The walk was a little under three miles. Wilde took his time. He stopped for coffee and a croissant. He liked the city in the morning. He didn’t know why. There was something about eight million souls getting ready for their day that appealed to him. Perhaps because his normal life—a life Jenn would undoubtedly find unworthy—had always been the opposite.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Laila. He couldn’t stop thinking of what this walk would be like with her by his side.

Wilde arrived at Washington Square Park. Central Park was his favorite, but this place was New York City in all its eccentric glory. The marble arch was done in the Roman triumphal style, designed by famed architect Stanford White, who was murdered in 1906 at the Madison Square Theatre by jealous and “mentally unstable” (according to his defense) millionaire Harry Kendall Thaw over Thaw’s wife, Evelyn Nesbit. It was the first “Trial of the Century.” The arch contained two marble figures of Washington in relief—Washington at War on one column, and Washington at Peace on the other. In both sculptures, Washington was flanked by two figures. In Washington at War, the two figures represented Fame and Valor, Fame seeming an ironic choice to Wilde, especially when he thought about Peter and Jenn, while the two figures flanking Washington at Peace were Wisdom and Justice.

As Wilde stood and stared up at the Washington at Peace sculpture, he sensed someone moving next to him. A female voice said, “Look closely at the figure on the far right.”

The woman was in her early sixties. She was short, stocky, wearing a tan jacket, black turtleneck, blue jeans.

Wilde said, “Okay.”

“See the inscribed book he’s holding above Washington’s head?”

Wilde nodded and read the inscription out loud. “EXITUS ACTA PROBAT.”

“Latin,” the woman said.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Sarcasm. I love it. Do you know what it means?”

“‘The outcome justifies the means,’” Wilde said.

The woman nodded, adjusting her tortoise-framed glasses. “Amazing when you think about it. You build this giant monument to the father of our country. And what quote do you use to honor him and his work and his memory? Basically, ‘The ends justify the means.’ And even stranger, who is giving George Washington this somewhat amoral advice?” She pointed to the figure over Washington’s left shoulder. “Justice. Justice isn’t telling us to be fair or honest or truthful or law-abiding or impartial. Justice is telling our first president and all the park’s millions of visitors that the ends justify the means.”

Wilde turned to her. “Are you RJ?”

“Only if you are PB.”

“I’m not PB,” Wilde said. “But you know that already.”

The woman nodded. “I do indeed.”

“And you’re not RJ.”

“That’s also correct.”

“Do you want to tell me who you are?” Wilde asked.

“You first.”

“My guess is,” Wilde continued, “PB reached out to you—or should I say RJ?—before he closed down his account. Then he disappeared on RJ the same way he disappeared on everybody else. When I reached out last night, it made RJ curious.”

“All true,” the woman said.

“So who are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m a colleague of RJ’s. Do you know who PB really is?”

“Yes. You don’t?”

“No,” she said. “He insisted on anonymity. We told him the truth. I shouldn’t say ‘we.’ I wasn’t really involved. It was my colleague.”

“RJ?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s your colleague from Memphis.”

“How did you know that?”

Wilde did not reply.

“What do you say we cut to the chase?” the woman asked. “My colleague told PB what he wanted to know. In exchange, your friend PB promised to cooperate.”

“But he didn’t.”

“That’s right. Instead, he closed down his account. We never heard from him again.”

“What did you tell him?” Wilde asked.

“Oh, I don’t think we will play that game again,” the woman said. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…” She stopped. “What’s your real name?”

“I’m Wilde.”

The woman grinned. “I’m Danielle.” She took out a police badge. “NYPD Detective Danielle Sheer, retired. Do you want to cooperate with us?”

“Is this an official investigation?”

Danielle Sheer shook her head. “I said I was retired, didn’t I? I’m helping a colleague.”

“The colleague from Memphis.”

“That’s right.”

“And PB promised to help him too.”

“I didn’t say it was a him.”

“Sorry. Is it a her?”

“No, it’s a him. I’ll tell you what, Wilde. You give me PB’s real name, and I’ll spill all. Believe me, you’ll be interested.”