When people decide to end their lives, they often exhibit a sense of calm. The decision has been made. A weight, oddly enough, has been lifted.
“Well, I have news,” Hester said. “And it’s not good.”
Wilde waited.
“The mother called me back. She has no idea where Naomi is.”
“So the father lied,” Wilde said.
“Maybe.”
Either way, it wouldn’t hurt for Wilde to pay the dad a visit.
Someone called out to Hester. There was some commotion in the background.
“All okay?” he asked.
“I’m about to go live on air,” Hester said. “Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“We need to do something fast, agreed?”
“It could still be nothing.”
“Is that what your gut is telling you?”
“I don’t listen to my gut,” Wilde said. “I listen to the facts.”
“Bullshit.” Then: “Are the facts worried about this girl?”
“This girl,” he agreed. “And Matthew.”
There was more commotion.
“Gotta go, Wilde. We’ll talk soon.”
She hung up.
* * *
Hester sat at the news desk on a leather-backed stool, set a tad too high for her. Her toes barely touched the floor. The teleprompter was lined up and ready to roll. Lori, the on-duty hairstylist, was working some final touches, which involved two-finger plucking, while Bryan, the makeup artist, added some last-second concealer. The red countdown clock, which resembled the timer on a TV-drama bomb, indicated that they had under two minutes until air.
Her cohost for tonight played on his phone. Hester closed her eyes for a second, felt the makeup brush stroke her cheek, felt the fingers gently pull her hair into place. It was all oddly soothing.
When her phone vibrated, she opened her eyes with a sigh and shooed Lori and Bryan away. She normally wouldn’t take a call this close to going on air, but the caller ID told her it was her grandson.
“Matthew?”
“Did you find her yet?”
His voice was a desperate hush.
“Why are you whispering? Where are you?”
“At Crash’s house. Did you speak to Naomi’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She doesn’t know where Naomi is.”
Her grandson made a sound that might have been a groan.
“Matthew, what aren’t you telling us?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
His tone turned sullen. “Forget I asked, okay?”
“Not okay.”
One of the producers yelled, “Ten seconds to air.”
Her cohost pocketed his phone and sat up straight. He turned to Hester, saw she had the phone pressed against her ear, and said, “Uh, Hester? You’re doing the intro.”
The producer held up his hand to indicate five seconds. He tucked his thumb to show it was now four.
“I’ll call you back,” Hester said.
She put the phone on the table in front of her as the producer dropped his index finger.
Three seconds may seem like a very short time. In television terms, it’s not. Hester had time to glance at Allison Grant, her segment producer, and nod. Allison had time to make a face and nod back so as to indicate that she would comply with Hester’s request but she would do so reluctantly.
Still, Hester had prepared for this. There were times you investigated—and there were times you instigated.
It was time for the latter.
The producer finished his countdown and pointed at Hester.
“Good evening,” Hester said, “and welcome to this edition of Crimstein on Crime. Our lead story tonight is—what else?—upstart presidential candidate Rusty Eggers and the controversy surrounding his campaign.”
That part was on the teleprompter. The rest was not.
Hester took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a…
“But first, breaking news just coming in,” Hester said.
Her cohost frowned and turned toward her.
The thing was, Matthew was scared. That was what Hester couldn’t shake. Matthew was scared, and he had asked for her help. How could she not do all she could?
A photograph of Naomi Pine filled television screens across the country. It was the only photograph her producer Allison Grant had been able to find, and that had taken some doing. There was nothing on social media, which was really strange in today’s society, but Allison, who was as good as they came, dug up the website for the school photographer who took the official Sweet Water High portraits. Once Allison promised that they would keep the watermark with his logo on it, the photographer had agreed to let them use it on air.
Hester continued: “Tonight, a local girl from Westville, New Jersey, is missing and needs your help.”
* * *
From the parking lot outside Ava’s condo, Wilde weighed his options. There really wasn’t much more to do when he thought about it. The hour was getting late. So Option One: He could just drive back to Laila’s house and gently pad upstairs to the bedroom where she’d be waiting and…
Yeah, did he really have to review other options?
To cover his bases, he texted Matthew: Where are you?
Matthew: At Crash Maynard’s.
Laila had told him that earlier, but he wasn’t sure he was supposed to know.
Wilde: Is Naomi there?
Matthew: No.
Wilde debated what to type next, but then he saw the dots dancing, indicating that Matthew was typing.
Matthew: Shit.
Wilde: What?
Matthew: Something bad is going down.
Wilde’s thumbs didn’t move as fast as he wanted them to, but he finally managed to type: Like what?
No reply.
Wilde: Hello?
The utopian image from Option One—Laila upstairs in that bedroom, warm under the covers, reading legal briefs—rose up in front of him so real he could smell her skin.
Wilde: Matthew?
No reply. The Laila-related image turned to smoke and drifted into the ether.
Damn.
Wilde started up the road toward Maynard Manor.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Matthew was in Crash Maynard’s enormous mansion on the hill.
The mansion’s exterior looked old and kind of Gothic with marble columns. It reminded Matthew of that snooty golf club his grandmother took him to because one of her clients was getting some kind of award. Hester hadn’t liked being there, he remembered. As she sucked down the wine—too much wine as it turned out—her eyes began to narrow. She glanced around the room, frowning and muttering under her breath about silver spoons and privilege and inbreeding. When he asked her what was wrong, Hester had looked her grandson up and down and said, loud enough for those nearby to hear: “You’re half Jew, half black—you’d doubly not be allowed in this club.” Then she paused, raised a finger in the air, and added, “Or maybe you’d be two tokens in one.” When an elderly lady with frozen dollops of snow-white hair made a tut-tut, shh-shh noise in her direction, Hester had told her to blow it out her ass.