by Harlan Coben
“Dash has a son named Crash?”
“His father loved the movie Bull Durham or something. Can you believe that?”
He shrugged. “When your name is Wilde…”
“Touché.”
Darkness had fallen. The lullaby of crickets played, his constant comforting companion. “I better go.”
“Wait.” Laila dug into her jeans pocket. “No need to play mountain man.” She pulled out her key fob and tossed it to him. “Take my car.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I may not be gone long.”
“I’ll be here, Wilde.”
Laila closed the door.
* * *
Eight months ago, when Wilde first encountered Ava O’Brien, she was living off Route 17 in a sprawling condo development of dull grays and beiges. That night, as they stumbled under popping fluorescent streetlights back to her place, Ava had made a joke about how the condos looked so much alike that she often stuck her key in the wrong door.
Wilde had no such issue. He still remembered the exact address and location.
No one answered on the first knock. Wilde knew the condo layout. He checked the window on the upper right. The light was on. That didn’t mean much. He looked for a passing shadow. Nothing.
He knocked again.
Shuffling feet. A pause. It was nearly nine p.m. now. Ava O’Brien was probably looking through the peephole. He stood and waited. A moment later he heard a sliding chain. The knob turned.
“Wilde?”
Ava wore a big terry cloth robe. He knew the robe. He had even worn it.
“Can I come in for a second?” he asked.
He tried to read her face to see whether she was happy or sad to see him. Not that it would change anything. Her expression, however, seemed mixed. There was maybe surprise. There was maybe some joy. There was also something else—something in her expression that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Now?”
He didn’t bother replying.
Ava leaned forward, met his eye, and whispered, “I’m not alone, Wilde.”
Ah, so now he could quite put his finger on it.
Her face softened. “Ah, Wilde,” she said in a voice too tender. “Why tonight?”
Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should have left this to Hester.
“It’s about Naomi Pine,” he said.
That got her attention. She glanced behind her, stepped out onto the stoop, and closed the door.
“What about Naomi?” she asked. “Is she okay?”
“She’s missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“She’s one of your students, right?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“What do you mean, she’s missing?”
“Did you notice she’s been absent?”
“I assumed she was sick.” Ava tightened the terry cloth robe. “I don’t understand. What’s your interest in this?”
“I’m trying to find her.”
“Why?” When he didn’t reply right away, Ava asked, “Did you ask her father?”
“My colleague”—easier than trying to explain about Hester—“did.”
“And?”
“He claims that Naomi is with her mother.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
Now Ava looked genuinely concerned. “Naomi’s mother hasn’t been a part of her life for a long time.”
“So we’ve been told.”
“How did you end up coming to me?”
“A source”—again easier—“claimed that you’re close to her.”
“I still don’t understand. Why are you looking for Naomi? Did someone hire you?”
“No. I’m doing it as a favor.”
“A favor for whom?”
“I can’t tell you. Do you have any idea where she is?”
The door behind her opened. A big man with one of those superlong beards filled the doorway. He looked at Ava, then at Wilde. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” Wilde said.
He looked back at Ava. “I better be going.”
“No need,” Wilde said. “This won’t take long.”
The bearded man looked at Ava some more. Then, as if he’d seen an answer there, he nodded to himself. “Rain check?” he asked her.
“Sure.”
He kissed her on the cheek, slapped Wilde on the back, and jogged down the steps. He slid into his GMC Terrain, headed out in reverse, and waved goodbye. Wilde turned back toward Ava and considered making an apology. She waved that away.
“Come on in.”
* * *
Wilde sat on the same red couch where he and Ava had first kissed. He quickly scanned the room. Nothing much had changed since he’d spent those three days here with her. On one wall, there were two new paintings hung the slightest bit crookedly—one watercolor of what looked like a tormented face, one oil painting of the Houvenkopf Mountain, which wasn’t far from here.
“The paintings,” he asked. “You do them?”
She shook her head. “Students.”
He had figured that. She didn’t like displaying her own work. Too personal, she’d told him when he asked. Too self-involved. Too easy to see all your flaws.
“Either of them by Naomi?”
“No,” Ava said. “But go ahead if you want.”
“Go ahead and what?”
She gestured to the walls. “Straighten them. I know how antsy it’s making you.”
At night, while Ava had slept, Wilde would go around, sometimes with a level, and make sure the paintings were indeed completely straight. It was one of the reasons why he was glad he had nothing hung up in his own abode.
As Wilde started to adjust the paintings, Ava took a seat in the chair farthest away from him. “You need to tell me why you’re looking for her.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
He finished finagling with the mountain watercolor. “We don’t have time for explanations. Do you trust me, Ava?”
She pushed the hair back from her face. “Should I?”
There may have been an edge in the tone, he couldn’t be sure.
Then: “Yes, Wilde, I trust you.”
“Tell me about Naomi.”
“I don’t know where she is, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But she’s one of your students?”
“She will be.”
“What does that mean?”
“I encouraged her to sign up for Intro to Watercolors next semester. She’ll be my student then.”
“But you already know her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I do cafeteria duty three days a week. With the cutbacks, they were woefully understaffed.” She leaned forward. “You went to that high school, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to believe this, but when the two of us were, uh”—she looked up as though searching for the right word before shrugging and settling for—“together, I had no idea who you were. I mean, about your past.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I can always tell.”
“People treat you differently, right? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I imagine you were an outcast at that place, right?”
“To some degree.”
“To some degree,” she repeated, “because you’re strong and attractive and probably athletic. Naomi is none of those things. She is that girl, Wilde. The full-on, grade-A, bullied outcast. Somehow—and this will sound awful—but there is something about her that makes it easier for people. Human nature that no one wants to discuss. There is a bit of us that enjoys the spectacle. Like she deserves it. And it’s not just students. The other teachers smirk. I’m not saying they like it, but they do nothing to defend her.”
“But you do.”
“I try. It often makes it w
orse. I know that’s a cop-out, but when I stood up for her, well, let’s just say it didn’t help. So what I do instead, I pretend she gets in trouble—I hope that maybe gives her cred or something—and part of her punishment is, she can’t sit in the cafeteria during lunch. I take her to the art studio. Sometimes, if I get out of cafeteria duty, I’ll sit with her. I don’t think it helped much with the students, but at least…”
“At least what?”
“At least Naomi gets a break. At least she gets a few minutes of peace during the school day.” Ava blinked away a tear. “If Naomi is missing, she probably ran away.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because her life is hell.”
“Even at home?”
“I don’t know if hell is the right word, but it isn’t great there either. Do you know Naomi was adopted?”
Wilde shook his head.
“She talks about it more than an adopted kid should.”
“In what way?”
“Fantasizing about being rescued by her real parents, for example. Her adoptive parents had to go through all kinds of interviews and screenings, and when they passed, they were awarded an infant—Naomi—but then pretty much right away, the mom couldn’t handle it. They even tried to return her to the orphanage. Do you believe that? Like she was a package delivered by UPS. Anyway, her mother had a breakdown. Or claimed to. She abandoned Naomi and her father.”
“Do you know where the mother is now?”
“Oh, she’s”—Ava frowned and made air quotes with her fingers—“‘recovered.’ Remarried a rich guy. Naomi says she lives in a fancy town house on Park Avenue.”
“Has Naomi said anything to you lately? Anything that might help?”
“No.” Then: “Now that you mention it.”
“What?”
“She seemed a little…better. More relaxed. Calm.”
Wilde didn’t say anything, but he didn’t like that.
“Now it’s your turn, Wilde. Why are you asking?”
“Someone is worried about her.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say.”
“Matthew Crimstein.”
He said nothing.
“Like I said, Wilde, I didn’t know who you were when we met.”
“But you know now.”
“Yes.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. He reached out and took her hands in his. She pulled away. He let her. “Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“You need to find her.”
* * *
Wilde walked back to the condo parking lot. He drove Laila’s BMW twenty yards to a dumpster. Hester had been correct. Laila was a slob. A beautiful slob. She kept her own self meticulously neat and clean and freshly showered. But her surroundings did not follow suit. The backseat of her BMW had coffee cups and protein bar wrappers.
Wilde put the car in park and emptied it out. He wasn’t a germophobe, but he was glad that she had antibacterial lotion in the glove compartment. He looked back at Ava’s house. Would she call back the big guy with the bigger beard? Doubt it.
He didn’t regret his time with Ava. Not in the slightest. In fact, there had been a strange pang when he first saw her, something akin to…longing? Maybe it was justification or rationalization, but the fact that he couldn’t connect long term didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate new experiences with new people. He never wanted to hurt them, but maybe it was even worse to patronize them or hand them some bullshit line. He settled on being completely truthful, not sugarcoating it, not being too faux protective.
Wilde slept outside. Even on those nights.
It was hard to explain why, so sometimes he would leave a note, sneak back to the woods for a few hours, and then be back by the morning. Wilde couldn’t fall asleep when someone else was with him.
It was that simple.
Outside he dreamt a lot about his mother.
Or maybe it wasn’t his mother. Maybe it was another woman in that house with the red banister. He didn’t know. But in the dream, his mother—call her that for now—was beautiful, with long auburn hair and emerald eyes and the voice of an angel. Was this what his mother really looked like? The image was a bit too perfect, perhaps more delusion than reality. It could be something he just conjured up or had even seen on TV.
Memory makes demands that you often can’t keep. Memory is faulty because it insists on filling in the blanks.
His phone rang. It was Hester.
“Did you talk to Ava O’Brien?” Hester asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you proud of me for not prying about how you know her?”
“You’re the model of discretion.”
“So what did she say?”
Wilde filled her in. When he finished, she said, “That part about Naomi seeming calm. That’s not good.”
“I know,” Wilde said.
When people decide to end their lives, they often exhibit a sense of calm. The decision has been made. A weight, oddly enough, has been lifted.
“Well, I have news,” Hester said. “And it’s not good.”
Wilde waited.
“The mother called me back. She has no idea where Naomi is.”
“So the father lied,” Wilde said.
“Maybe.”
Either way, it wouldn’t hurt for Wilde to pay the dad a visit.
Someone called out to Hester. There was some commotion in the background.
“All okay?” he asked.
“I’m about to go live on air,” Hester said. “Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“We need to do something fast, agreed?”
“It could still be nothing.”
“Is that what your gut is telling you?”
“I don’t listen to my gut,” Wilde said. “I listen to the facts.”
“Bullshit.” Then: “Are the facts worried about this girl?”
“This girl,” he agreed. “And Matthew.”
There was more commotion.
“Gotta go, Wilde. We’ll talk soon.”
She hung up.
* * *
Hester sat at the news desk on a leather-backed stool, set a tad too high for her. Her toes barely touched the floor. The teleprompter was lined up and ready to roll. Lori, the on-duty hairstylist, was working some final touches, which involved two-finger plucking, while Bryan, the makeup artist, added some last-second concealer. The red countdown clock, which resembled the timer on a TV-drama bomb, indicated that they had under two minutes until air.
Her cohost for tonight played on his phone. Hester closed her eyes for a second, felt the makeup brush stroke her cheek, felt the fingers gently pull her hair into place. It was all oddly soothing.
When her phone vibrated, she opened her eyes with a sigh and shooed Lori and Bryan away. She normally wouldn’t take a call this close to going on air, but the caller ID told her it was her grandson.
“Matthew?”
“Did you find her yet?”
His voice was a desperate hush.
“Why are you whispering? Where are you?”
“At Crash’s house. Did you speak to Naomi’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She doesn’t know where Naomi is.”
Her grandson made a sound that might have been a groan.
“Matthew, what aren’t you telling us?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
His tone turned sullen. “Forget I asked, okay?”
“Not okay.”
One of the producers yelled, “Ten seconds to air.”
Her cohost pocketed his phone and sat up straight. He turned to Hester, saw she had the phone pressed against her ear, and said, “Uh, Hester? You’re doing the intro.”
The producer held up his hand to indicate five seconds. He tucked his thumb to show it was now four.
“I’ll call you back,” Hester said.
She put the phone on the tab
le in front of her as the producer dropped his index finger.
Three seconds may seem like a very short time. In television terms, it’s not. Hester had time to glance at Allison Grant, her segment producer, and nod. Allison had time to make a face and nod back so as to indicate that she would comply with Hester’s request but she would do so reluctantly.
Still, Hester had prepared for this. There were times you investigated—and there were times you instigated.
It was time for the latter.
The producer finished his countdown and pointed at Hester.
“Good evening,” Hester said, “and welcome to this edition of Crimstein on Crime. Our lead story tonight is—what else?—upstart presidential candidate Rusty Eggers and the controversy surrounding his campaign.”
That part was on the teleprompter. The rest was not.
Hester took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a…
“But first, breaking news just coming in,” Hester said.
Her cohost frowned and turned toward her.
The thing was, Matthew was scared. That was what Hester couldn’t shake. Matthew was scared, and he had asked for her help. How could she not do all she could?
A photograph of Naomi Pine filled television screens across the country. It was the only photograph her producer Allison Grant had been able to find, and that had taken some doing. There was nothing on social media, which was really strange in today’s society, but Allison, who was as good as they came, dug up the website for the school photographer who took the official Sweet Water High portraits. Once Allison promised that they would keep the watermark with his logo on it, the photographer had agreed to let them use it on air.
Hester continued: “Tonight, a local girl from Westville, New Jersey, is missing and needs your help.”
* * *
From the parking lot outside Ava’s condo, Wilde weighed his options. There really wasn’t much more to do when he thought about it. The hour was getting late. So Option One: He could just drive back to Laila’s house and gently pad upstairs to the bedroom where she’d be waiting and…
Yeah, did he really have to review other options?
To cover his bases, he texted Matthew: Where are you?
Matthew: At Crash Maynard’s.
Laila had told him that earlier, but he wasn’t sure he was supposed to know.
Wilde: Is Naomi there?
Matthew: No.