“Okay.”
“I’m tired of pretending that doesn’t hurt. If you freak out or you need to run away—if you have to disappear into the woods or whatever—you have to tell me first.”
“Deal. I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t think—”
Laila held up her hand. “Apology accepted, but I’m not done.”
Wilde nodded for her to continue.
“You and I are exclusive. Nobody else. If you still want to play around—”
“I don’t.”
“I know you like to go to that hotel bar—”
“No,” Wilde said. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Also I want someone to take care of me when I need that. And I want someone I can take care of too.”
Wilde swallowed. “I’d like that too. What else?”
“That’s it for now.” She looked at her watch. “It’s late. I’m fried, you’re fried. Maybe it’s the exhaustion talking. Let’s see how all this looks in the morning.”
“Okay. Do you want me to stay or…？”
“Do you want to stay, Wilde?”
“Very much.”
“Good answer,” Laila said.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
At two in the morning, Wilde’s phone rang.
He was awake, staring at the ceiling of Laila’s bedroom, thinking about her and what they’d said tonight and realizing that they had talked more about their relationship in those three earlier minutes than they had in the previous decade.
With his fast reflexes, Wilde picked up the phone in mid-ring, throwing his feet onto the ground and rolling to a sit. The call was from Rola.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“I’m fine. Why are you whispering? Oh, wait, you’re not alone, are you?”
He rose and started toward the bathroom. “You really are an ace detective.”
“I’m in Vegas,” she said. “Daniel Carter isn’t home. The house is empty. No one has seen him and his wife lately. But I have a theory.”
“I’m listening.”
“The FBI agent who questioned you about your father. You said his name was George Kissell.”
“Yes.”
“Did he show you his badge?”
“No.”
“That’s because he’s not an FBI agent.”
“The other agent, Betz. She showed her ID.”
“Right. But I looked into Kissell. Here’s the kicker. George Kissell is not a fed. He’s a US marshal.”
Wilde froze.
“Yeah, I know. I’m out of here first thing in the morning. But that’s not why I called you at two a.m. I mean, that could have waited for the morning.”
“What, then?”
“The bug you planted? You were right. She just arrived at a hotel.”
“Which one?”
“The Mandarin Oriental in the Time Warner building.”
Wilde said nothing.
“Why would she be going to a hotel at two in the morning?” Rola asked.
“We both know,” Wilde said.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to head over there now.”
*
The Mandarin Oriental is an Asian-fusion five-star high-rise luxury hotel on Columbus Circle. The hotel runs from the thirty-fifth to the fifty-fourth floor, so that all rooms have an enviable view of Manhattan. It is also, as Wilde found out, very expensive. To get past the various security apparatus, he’d booked the cheapest room available, which went for a thousand dollars per night when you added in whatever bizarre taxes and surcharges hotels seem to stick on your bill.
Wilde checked in at the lobby on the thirty-fifth floor. He had requested a room on the forty-third floor because that was where she was staying and thus his card key would give him elevator access. His request was accepted and at almost four in the morning, Wilde politely turned down the receptionist’s offer to personally escort Wilde to his room. He headed up in the elevator, found the right door, and knocked.
Wilde put his finger over the peephole, so no one could look out.
A male voice said, “Who is it?”
“Room service.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“Free champagne. Compliments of the manager.”
“At this hour?”
“I messed up,” Wilde said. “I was supposed to bring it up hours ago. Please don’t tell. I’ll get fired.”
“Just leave it outside the door.”
He debated faking that and waiting for them to open the door, but he didn’t want to risk that they’d wait until morning. “I can’t do that.”