“What kind of office?” Wilde asked.
Gail Betz looked up. “Excuse me?”
“Katherine Frole was an FBI agent who worked out of Trenton, right?”
“Yes.”
“So why did she rent an office in Hopewell?”
Kissell spoke for the first time. “We’re asking the questions here.”
“Oh, look,” Hester said. “It speaks. I was about to applaud the FBI for hiring a mute.”
“You’re not funny,” Kissell said.
“Wow, that hurt my feelings. Really. But seriously, my client has been cooperative. He wants to see the murderer of Special Agent Frole brought to justice. So why not answer his question?”
Kissell sighed and peeled himself off the wall. He looked at Betz. “You finished, Special Agent Betz?”
Betz nodded. Kissell pulled out the chair next to her. He sat down heavily, as though he had the weight of the world on him, and wheeled the chair toward the table so that his belly pressed against it. He took his time folding his hands. Then he cleared his throat.
“Have you ever been to Las Vegas, Wilde?”
Warning bells sounded in Wilde’s head. Hester’s too. She put a hand on his forearm, signaling him not to answer.
“Why do you want to know that?” Hester asked.
“I was hoping to get hotel tips,” Kissell replied. Then: “It’s relevant to this investigation.”
“Perhaps you could explain how.”
“Your client knows how. You, Ms. Crimstein, probably know how. But I’m not in the mood to play games, so let me be more direct. We know you were in Las Vegas four months ago. More to the point, we know you visited the home of Daniel and Sofia Carter. I would like to know why.”
Wilde sat stunned.
Hester’s hand was still on his arm. She gave him a little squeeze. “What’s the connection?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“What’s the connection between this line of inquiry and the murders of McAndrews and Frole?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“We don’t know anything about it.”
“Well, see, Ms. Crimstein, neither do I. Yet. That’s why I am asking the question. I hope that if I get an answer, I may find a connection. Then I can ask more questions and find more connections. Or, try to stay with me here, I ask questions and find no connections and so I can move on. That’s how investigations work. So perhaps you can direct your client to tell us why he was in Las Vegas talking to the Carters, and then we can all see if it is relevant or not.”
“I don’t like it,” Hester said.
“That makes me sad,” Kissell said. “I want you to like my questions.”
Hester pointed to her chest. “Hey, pal, listen up. I’ll be the snarky wiseass here, okay?”
“Didn’t mean to usurp your role, Ms. Crimstein. Are you refusing to let your client answer?”
Hester said, “I’d like to confer with my client.”
Kissell shrugged for her to go ahead.
Hester whispered in Wilde’s ear. “Any idea what this is leading to?”
Wilde shook his head.
“I don’t like you answering blind questions like this,” she whispered.
Wilde did a quick calculation. If they’d known about his visit to Daniel Carter, then what was the harm in knowing why?
He signaled to Hester that he was okay to answer the question and said, “Daniel Carter is my biological father.”
Kissell was a cagey veteran. He was used to hearing crazy answers and keeping a straight face. He glanced at Betz, who didn’t bother hiding her surprise.
Kissell waited a beat and asked, “Can you walk us through that?”
“Walk you through what?” Hester asked.
“We all know Wilde’s history,” Kissell said. “It’s public record. I was always under the impression that no one knew the identity of his parents.”
“That was true,” Wilde said.
“How did you find—？”
“The same DNA genealogy site.”
“Hold the phone.” Kissell pushed back against the table. “Are you telling me that Daniel Carter was a DNA match on a website?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see if I’m following this. You put your DNA sample in this website, the website says ‘Hey, we found a match for you—this is your father.’”
“They do it by percentages, but yes.”
“So you contacted him and the two of you set up a visit?”