Wilde didn’t even want to know. “Does PB&J own the condo?”
“Don’t know. Right now, I just got it as a mailing address.”
“You can’t figure out who owns it?”
“No sales figures reported, but here’s the thing: Apartments in that building start at ten million.”
“Dollars?”
“No, pesetas,” Rola countered. “Of course, dollars. The penthouse duplex on the top floor is on the market for seventy-five million.”
Wilde rubbed his face and checked the time. “I bet I could drive there in an hour.”
“Forty-six minutes if you leave now, according to Waze,” Rola said.
“I’ll see if I can borrow Laila’s car.”
“Oooooo,” Rola said, mockingly drawing out the word in a singsong voice. “You’re with Laila?”
“And Matthew,” Wilde said. “And Hester was here too.”
“Don’t get defensive.”
“I’m not.”
“I like Laila,” Rola said. “I like her a lot.”
“She has a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, but you know what you might have?”
“What?”
“An uber-wealthy relative who lives in Sky. Call me when you find out more.”
Wilde headed for the stairs and called up. Matthew came crashing down, high-fived Wilde without breaking stride, and made his way to the door. “Later!” Matthew shouted before slamming the door behind him.
Wilde stood there for a moment. From the top of the stairs, Laila said, “He’s grown up.”
“Yep.”
“Sucks.”
“Yep.”
“He’s spending the night with his girlfriend.”
“He told me.”
“I swore I wouldn’t be that mother, but…”
“I get it.” Wilde turned to face her. “Can I borrow your car?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll bring it back tonight.”
“Don’t bother. I won’t need it until noon.”
“Okay.”
“You know where the key is.”
Wilde nodded. “Thank you.”
“Good night, Wilde.”
“Good night, Laila.”
She turned toward her home office. Wilde grabbed the key from the basket by the door. Laila had traded in her BMW for a black Mercedes-Benz SL 550—the same kind of car Darryl drove. He frowned at that, flipped the radio onto a classic rock station, and drove toward the city. The traffic across the George Washington Bridge was shockingly light. Wilde took the upper level and slowed in the right lane. Even from here, more than a hundred blocks north of Central Park South, he could make out Sky jutting into the clouds.
He parked in the lot under the Park Lane Hotel. Sky was a pure, emotionless glass tower. The lobby was all gleaming crystal and white and chrome. During the ride, Wilde had wondered about how to approach this, what he could really hope to accomplish by coming here. He entered.
A male security guard looked at Wilde as though he’d been phlegmed out of a vagrant’s throat. “Food deliveries are in the back.”
Wilde held up his empty hands. “Do you see me carrying food?”
A well-dressed woman who’d been behind the front desk came out and said, “May I help you?”
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Apartment seventy-eight, please.”
The receptionist shared a knowing glance with the security guard.
“Your name?”
“WW.”
“Pardon?”
“Tell them it’s WW.”
She flicked another look at the guard. Wilde tried to read their expressions. A building like this would have tight security. That was hardly a surprise. Even if he somehow got past this guard, there were two others by the elevators. Their expressions and mannerisms seemed born of something more akin to weariness and resignation than alarm or worry. It was as though they had been here before, played this role repeatedly, and were just going through the motions.
The receptionist went back to the desk and picked up the phone. She held the receiver to her ear for maybe a minute and said nothing. Then she came back over and said, “No one is home.”
“That’s odd. PB told me to come over.”
Both the guard and receptionist said nothing.
“PB is my cousin,” Wilde tried.
“Uh-huh,” the guard said, as though he’d heard the same thing a hundred times before. “Aren’t you a little old for this?”