With the computer unlocked, Wilde opened up the web browser to check through the history. He knew that computers were hardly tell-alls anymore. People mostly used their phones to surf and search nowadays. You could spy on emails or texts, but the good stuff was often hidden in secure messaging apps like Signal or Threema.
First site bookmarked: Instagram.
Unusual. Instagram was normally a phone app, not something people did from their computer. Wilde quickly clicked on the link. Instagram came up. He expected to see DogLufegnev’s handle in the profile box, but the screen name read NurseCaresLove24. The profile photo was of a woman who appeared to be Asian, no more than thirty. On the right, Wilde could see the option to switch profiles. He hit that link.
Dozens of accounts came up.
It was a vast potpourri of accounts—all creeds, genders, nationalities, occupations, persuasions were represented. Wilde scrolled down the screen, counting as he went along. He took out his phone and snapped screenshots of the names just in case they didn’t show up on the flash drive. He’d counted over thirty accounts when he finally located one with the name DogLufegnev.
He clicked on the profile and watched the page load. DogLufegnev had posted only twelve photographs in total, all nature shots. His followers numbered forty-six, and from what Wilde could tell, they all seemed to be other accounts set up on this computer. Wilde hit the private messaging icon. He found the same correspondences between DogLufegnev and Peter Bennett he’d seen at Rola’s house, but what was more curious, far more curious, was the message above it, the last one DogLufegnev received.
It was from someone named PantherStrike88. The message was chillingly simple:
Got you, McAndrews. You’re going to pay.
Whoa, Wilde thought. This Panther account had found McAndrews out.
The flash drive blinked twice, indicating it was done with the download. Wilde pulled it out and put it in his pocket. He clicked on the profile for PantherStrike88, but it was gone. Whoever had created the account—and sent that threatening message—had deleted themselves.
What the hell was going on?
For the first time since Wilde had entered the premises, he heard a sound.
A car.
He quickly stepped toward the front window in time to see the car’s taillights disappearing to the left. It was nothing. A car driving by. That’s all. This street was silent again.
But the tingle was back.
Wilde padded back toward the computer room, debating whether he should stay and keep looking through the computer or leave now, when the first whiff hit him.
He froze.
Wilde’s heart dropped into his stomach. He stood by a door he assumed led to the basement. He leaned toward it and inhaled deeper.
Oh no.
Wilde didn’t want to open it. He wanted to flee. But he couldn’t. Not now.
With his gloved hand he reached out and turned the knob. He cracked the door open. That was it. That was all he needed. The awful stench of decay rushed out as though it had been pounding on the door demanding to be released.
Wilde flicked on the light and looked down the stairs.
There was blood.
Lots of it.
Chapter
Fourteen
When Wilde’s call came in, Hester was on her back in bed, post flagrante delicto and still catching her breath. Lying next to her, staring up at the ceiling with a smile on his face, was her—was Hester too old to use the term “boyfriend”？—beau, Oren Carmichael.
“That,” Oren said, right before the phone trilled, “was awesome.”
They were in Hester’s Manhattan duplex. Like Hester, Oren had sold the Westville home where he and his ex, Cheryl, had raised their now-grown kids. Oren had been on the periphery of Hester’s life for a long time. He’d coached two of her sons in Little League. He had also been one of the policemen who’d found little Wilde in the woods.
Oren smiled at her.
“What?” Hester asked.
“Nothing,” Oren said.
“So why the big smile?”
“What part of ‘that was awesome’ is confusing you?”
When Ira died, Hester had figured that she was done with men. It wasn’t something she had concluded out of anger or bitterness or even heartbreak, though there was plenty of that. She’d loved Ira. He was a dear, kind, intelligent, funny man. He had been a wonderful life partner. Hester could simply not see herself dating again. She had a busy career and full life, and the whole idea of getting ready for a date with a new someone made her shiver. It just seemed like too much of a hassle. The notion that she would ever one day get naked in front of a man other than Ira both terrified and exhausted her. Who needed it? Not her.