“I never really thought about it,” Wilde said.
And he hadn’t. Of course, Sutton was right. Odds were strong that Daniel Carter, matching at approximately fifty percent, was his father. But women can give birth at awfully young ages—whenever ovulation starts. Let’s say his mother had been sixteen or seventeen when Daniel Carter was born, even in her early twenties, she could still have easily birthed Wilde too.
He picked up the phone and called Rola.
“Anything on Daniel Carter?”
“Nothing yet.”
“When you say ‘nothing’—”
“I mean just that. Nothing, nada, niente, nichts, nic, bubkes, so here’s the headline: Daniel Carter is not his real name, Wilde.”
“The man has a family, a business.”
“DC Dream House Construction. It’s owned by a shell corporation. No one is answering his home phone. No one at the business will talk about where he is. No one is answering the door at the house.”
“He has daughters.”
“We don’t want a local PI I don’t know well barging into their lives yet. Not until we know more. It’s early, Wilde.”
“Get your best people on it, Rola.”
“I got my absolute best.”
“Thanks.”
“Me.”
“What?”
“I’m flying to Vegas.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. The kids are driving me crazy anyway. I need a break. A little blackjack. A little discovering who abandoned a child in the woods. A little one-armed bandit. Maybe a magic show. And Wilde?”
“Yep.”
“Whatever is going on with your bio-dad and the feds? It’s seriously messed up.”
“Daniel Carter might not be my dad.”
Wilde quickly explained about the DNA percentages. Something about genetic-relationship discussions kept niggling at the base of his brain. He was missing something. But other things were starting to click. He remembered his phone call with Silas Bennett. Silas had said that someone matched him at twenty-three percent on MeetYourFamily.com. Now that Wilde could see that Peter Bennett had also gotten a twenty-three percent match, it seemed somewhat logical to assume that the two “brothers,” one of whom was supposedly adopted, were genetically related, most probably half siblings. It wasn’t definite, but there were ways Wilde could confirm that hypothesis.
He called Vicky Chiba. “Is Silas there yet?”
“No.”
“When do you expect him?”
“He got delayed. Probably another hour, hour and a half.”
“You still plan on telling him about Peter being adopted?”
“Yes. You’ll be here for that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m so grateful. Did you learn any more about Peter?”
“I’ll fill you in when I see you.”
“Okay, I’ll text you if I get any updates from Silas.”
Wilde hung up. They were still waiting on two more approvals from the DNA websites. He tried to put it together. Peter Bennett finds out that he was adopted. He signs up for a bunch of DNA sites to see whether he can find matches. Okay, fine. That all makes sense. He gets one close match—his own brother, Silas. Is that when he realizes he knows enough? That doesn’t seem possible. Did he find someone else? Why did he close it all down once he found the truth? Did he learn something he wanted no one else to know about?
Wilde’s phone double-buzzed for an incoming phone call. Odd. The double buzz indicated someone not in his rather small contact list. No one else had this number. No one else knew this number. He was about to send the call to his voicemail when he spotted the caller ID:
PETER BENNETT.
Wilde stood and walked toward a corner as he brought the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“We need to meet.”
Chapter
Thirty-Four
When Hester got back to her apartment, Oren was there and waiting. He greeted her with a hug. Hester loved his hugs. He was a big man and he hugged big. It made her feel small and safe and comforted. Who doesn’t love that? She closed her eyes and inhaled. He smelled like a man, whatever nonsense that meant, and even that made her feel happy and protected.
“How did it go?” Oren asked.
“The jury remains deadlocked. Judge Greiner wants to give it another day or two.”
They ended the hug and headed into the living room. Hester’s decorating style could best be described as Early American Frenetic. When she and Ira had first moved into Manhattan, they had “temporarily” filled the apartment with too many knickknacks and furniture from the house in Westville. The furniture didn’t go, of course, not in size, shape, color, anything, but there would be plenty of time to change it.