Hester put her head on his shoulder. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“Part of me was ready to end it,” she said.
Oren said nothing.
“As much as I adore you, my job will always come first. Your telling other police officers that Wilde found the body…”
“Unconscionable,” Oren said.
“So why did you do it?”
“Because I wanted to catch a cop killer. Because I’m stupid sometimes. Because I’m a small-town police chief who never worked on a homicide and maybe I let my pride get ahead of me.”
“A chance to be a big man?”
Oren cringed. “Yes.”
“You used your own justifications,” she said.
“Doesn’t make what I did right.”
“No.”
“So why are you forgiving me?”
Hester shrugged. “The system has elasticity. So do I.”
“Makes sense.”
“I also don’t want to lose you. We all self-rationalize. You, me, Richard Levine. The question is, Is the system elastic enough to handle it?”
“And in this case?”
“With me, it’s okay.”
“Oh, good.”
“With Wilde, I’m not so sure. He doesn’t trust easily.”
“I know,” Oren said. “I’ll try to make it up to him.”
Hester did not think he could, but she kept that thought to herself.
“Another body has been found,” Oren said. “Shot by the same gun.”
“Whoa. Is Wilde a suspect?”
“No. The man was shot in Delaware at around the same time Wilde was under surveillance in New York City. He’s totally in the clear.”
“Good.” Hester rose up and took a sip of wine. “In that case, is it okay if we don’t talk about it tonight?”
“More than okay.”
“I just want to rest.”
“Okay.”
“Or maybe neck,” Hester said.
Oren smiled. “That might lead to other things.”
She put down the glass and reached for him. “It might at that.”
“I thought you just wanted to rest.”
Hester shrugged. “The system may have elasticity.”
Chapter
Thirty-Five
The caller ID read “PETER BENNETT.”
“My name is Chris,” the voice said.
“That’s not the name on here.”
“I know. I wanted to get your attention.”
“How did you get my number?”
“It’s not relevant. We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Peter Bennett, Katherine Frole, Henry McAndrews, Martin Spirow.”
The man named Chris waited for a response. Wilde did not give him one.
“I hope that’s all,” Chris said, “though there will certainly be more if we don’t act.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you. My name is Chris.”
“And why should I trust you?”
“The real question is, Why should I trust you? I’m the one with a lot to lose here. We need to meet.”
“Where are you calling me from?”
“Look out the front window.”
“What?”
“You’re in the Crimstein house at the end of a cul-de-sac. Look at the front yard.”
Wilde moved toward the picture window by the door. He gazed out into the night. A thin man stood silhouetted by the streetlamp. He lifted his arm and waved to Wilde.
“Come outside,” Chris said. “Like I said, we need to talk.”
Wilde hung up and turned to Matthew and Sutton.
Matthew said, “Who was that?”
“I’m going into the front yard. Lock all the doors. Both of you go upstairs. Watch us from your bedroom window. If anything happens to me, call 911, your mother, and Oren Carmichael. In that order. Then hide.”
Sutton asked, “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. Bolt the door behind me.”
Chris was scrawny and pale with thinning blond hair. He didn’t so much pace as stomp as though putting out small brush fires. He stopped when Wilde approached.
“What do you want?” Wilde asked.
Chris smiled. “Been a while since I did that.”
He waited for Wilde to ask, Did what? When Wilde didn’t, he continued.
“I used to drop bombs on people’s lives. I don’t mean literally. Well, maybe I do. I would reveal the worst secrets to unsuspecting, trusting people. I told one woman at her bachelorette party that her fiancé had posted a revenge porn video of her online. I told a husband with two sons that his wife had faked her third pregnancy to keep him from leaving her. Stuff like that. I thought they had the right to know. A secret revealed was a secret destroyed. I thought I was doing good.”