The Boy from the Woods(74)
There were three heart emojis at the end.
Wilde asked the obvious: “Do you know where the message came from or who sent it?”
“No. We know it had to be someone else with this app obviously, but the contact and incoming ISP or whatever gets deleted.”
Wilde stared at the message. He read it again.
“Did someone make a ransom demand?” Gavin asked.
“You said you already know.”
“What?”
“Your exact words were, ‘we know that there’s been a ransom demand.’ If you know, there’s no reason to ask me.”
“Can you stop being a pain in the ass for five minutes? Rusty wants to help.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“And we both know who wrote that message.”
He meant, of course, Naomi.
“Assuming you’re right,” Wilde said, “what do you want to do about it?”
“Did you check Naomi’s house?”
“I visited the father.”
“Did you check the whole house? Last time that’s where she was the whole time, right? In the basement?”
Wilde said nothing. He checked his watch. It was almost three p.m., an hour until the deadline. When they approached the gate in front of the Maynard house, Wilde said, “Thanks for the ride.”
“You know I’m right,” Gavin said.
“About?”
“About everything. You know Naomi is somehow involved in this.”
“Uh-huh. What else are you right about?”
He gave him the dagger glare. “That you and your sister can’t handle this alone.”
“I’m not calling the shots,” Wilde said.
“If you tell the Maynards to bring us back in, they’ll listen to you.”
Something here, something about this whole encounter, was definitely not adding up.
“Thanks for the ride, Gavin. Stay in touch.”
*
Rola met him by the Maynards’ security gate in a golf cart.
“I’ll drive you up to Hester.”
He sat beside her as they started up the drive. The grounds were overmanicured. Many would find that beautiful. Wilde did not. Nature paints her canvas, then you come along and think you can improve it. No. Nature is supposed to be, pardon the wordage, wild. You tame it, you lose what makes it special.
After he filled her in, Rola asked, “So what do you need from me?”
“The ransom note.”
“What about it?”
“It asked specifically for the ‘oldest’ tapes.”
“Meaning?”
“The first time Dash Maynard met Rusty Eggers was in DC when they were Capitol Hill interns. See if you can find out anything about that time period.”
“Like what?”
“Like I have no idea. Did they room together? Hang out? It’s a long shot, I admit.”
“I’ll put some researchers on it.”
“Also, see if you can locate Saul Strauss. He has to be Suspect Number One here.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
Wilde thought about it and then figured better safe than sorry. “I need you to go to Naomi Pine’s house when it gets dark.”
Rola looked at him. “Weren’t you just there?”
“I need the place searched.”
“For?”
“Crash and Naomi.”
Rola nodded. “On it.”
Hester sat alone on a stone bench facing the Manhattan skyline. As Wilde approached, she turned toward him and shaded her eyes. With her other hand she patted the concrete. “Sit with me.”
He did. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared at the skyline over the trees. The sun was at the height where everything—buildings, trees, formations—looked like it had angel halos.
“Nice,” Hester said.
“Yes.”
“And boring.” Hester turned to him. “You want to go first?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so,” Hester said. Then: “I talked to Arnie Poplin.”
She filled him in.
“Killed someone,” Wilde said when she finished.
“That’s what he claims he heard.”
“I assume you weren’t the first person he told this to.”
“I would highly doubt it.”
“So why hasn’t anyone reported it?”
“Because Arnie Poplin is an attention-seeking, unreliable drug addict with an axe to grind.”
“Okay.”
“Journalists would be wary of him under any conditions, but Rusty Eggers rides the refs better than anyone.”
“Rides the refs?”
Hester squinted into the sun. “A good friend of mine was a star basketball player in college. A first-round draft pick out of Duke. You a basketball fan at all?”
“No.”
“Then you wouldn’t know him. Anyway, he’s taken me to a few games at Madison Square Garden. College mostly. You know what I always notice?”
Wilde shook his head.
“The way the coaches rant and scream at the referees. These little men in their suits and ties spend the entire game running up and down the sidelines, having nonstop tantrums like toddlers wanting candy. It’s embarrassing to watch. So I asked my friend, the basketball star, what was that all about, and he said it’s an intentional strategy. People by nature want to be liked. Not you, not me. But people in general. So if you scream at the refs every time they blow the whistle on you—legitimate or not—they are more likely to give you a call.”