It hadn’t gone as planned.
Two weeks ago, while packing to leave Costa Rica, the DNA genealogy site had sent him an email with the subject: “IMPORTANT UPDATE!” They’d matched him to “a relative sharing far more DNA” than “any other in your relative chain.” This account went by the initials DC. At the bottom of the email, a hyperlink urged him to “LEARN MORE!” Against his better instincts, he clicked it.
DC was, according to the age, gender, and match percentile, Wilde’s father.
Wilde had just stared at the screen.
Now what? The door to his past was right in front of him. All he had to do was turn the knob. Still, Wilde hesitated. Didn’t this crazy, intrusive website work the other way too? If Wilde had received notification that his father was on the site, didn’t it stand to reason that his father received one saying that his son was here too?
Why didn’t DC reach out to him?
For two days, Wilde let it go. At one point, he almost deleted his entire genealogy profile. No good could come of this. He knew that. Over the years, he had gone through all the possible machinations that might explain how a little boy had ended up in the woods, left alone for years, left (if we want to be frank) to die.
When he’d called Hester about this paternal match and his reluctance to pursue it, she’d said, “You want my take?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a schmuck.”
“Helpful.”
“Listen to me closely, Wilde.”
“Okay.”
“I’m a lot older than you.”
“True.”
“Quiet. I’m about to drop some knowledge on you.”
“Did you get that line from Hamilton?”
“I did.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Continue.”
“The ugliest truth is better than the prettiest lie.”
Wilde frowned. “Is that from a fortune cookie?”
“Don’t be a wiseass. You can’t walk away from this. You know that. You need to know the truth.”
Hester was, of course, right. He may not want to turn that knob, but he couldn’t spend the rest of his life staring at the door either. He signed back onto the DNA site and wrote a message to DC. He kept it short and simple:
I may be your son. Could we speak?
When he hit send, an auto-reply bounced back. According to the website, DC was no longer in the database. That was both suspicious and odd — his father choosing to delete his account — but it suddenly hardened Wilde’s resolve to get answers. Screw turning the doorknob; it was time to kick the damn door down. He called Hester back.
If Hester’s name seems familiar, it could be because she’s legendary television attorney Hester Crimstein, host of Crimstein on Crime. She made some calls, used her connections. Wilde worked some other sources from his own years in what is dubiously dubbed “freelance security.” It took ten days, but eventually they got a name:
Daniel Carter, age sixty-one, of Henderson, Nevada.
Four days ago, Wilde flew from Liberia, Costa Rica, to Las Vegas, Nevada. Now here he was, in a blue Nissan Altima rental, following Daniel Carter’s Ram pickup truck to a construction site. He had stalled long enough. When Daniel Carter pulled up to the town house development, Wilde parked on the street and got out of the car. The construction noise was in full throat, deafening. Wilde was about to make his move when he saw two workers approach Carter. Wilde waited. One man handed Carter a hard hat. The other handed him some sort of earplugs. Carter put them all on and led his cohorts into the heart of the development. Their work boots kicked up desert dust to the point where it was hard to see them. Wilde watched and waited. A sign put up with two-by-fours announced in too-ornate a font that VISTA MEWS — could you come up with a more generic name? — would feature “three-bedroom luxury town houses” with a starting price of $299,000. A red banner slashing left to right read: “COMING SOON!”
Daniel Carter might have been the foreman or general contractor or whatever you might call the boss, but the man clearly didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. Wilde watched as he led his workers by example. He hammered in a beam. He threw on protective goggles and drilled. He inspected the work, nodding toward his employees when he was happy, pointing out deficiencies when he wasn’t. The workers respected him. Wilde could tell. Or maybe Wilde was projecting. Hard to know.
Twice Wilde saw Daniel Carter alone and started to make his approach, but someone always got there first. The site was busy, in constant motion, loud. Wilde hated loud noises. Always had. He decided to wait and catch his father when he got back home.
At five p.m., the workers started to leave. Daniel Carter was one of the last. He waved goodbye and hopped into his pickup. Wilde followed him back to the ranch on Sundew Avenue.
When Daniel Carter turned off the ignition and stepped out of the truck, Wilde pulled up and parked in front of his house. Carter spotted Wilde and stopped moving. The front door of the ranch opened. His wife, Sofia, greeted him with an almost celestial smile.
Wilde slid out of the car and said, “Mr. Carter?”
His father stayed by the open truck door, almost as though he were debating getting back in and driving away. Carter took his time, staring warily at the interloper. Wilde wasn’t sure what to say next, so he went with the simplest:
“Could I have a word with you?”
Daniel Carter glanced toward Sofia. Something passed between them, the unspoken language of a couple who had been together some three decades, Wilde assumed. Sofia stepped back inside and closed the door.
“Who are you?” Carter asked.
“My name is Wilde.” He took a few steps closer so that he wouldn’t have to shout. “I think you’re my father.”
Chapter Two
Daniel Carter didn’t say much.
He listened quietly while Wilde explained about his past, about the DNA genealogy site, about reaching the conclusion that they were most likely father and son. Carter kept his expression neutral throughout, nodding every once in a while, wringing his hands maybe, losing a little color in his face. Carter’s stoicism impressed Wilde, reminded him, oddly enough, of himself.
They were still in the front yard. Carter kept sneaking glances back at his house. Finally, he said, “Let’s take a drive.”
They got in the pickup truck and drove in silence, neither feeling the need to talk. Wilde assumed that his words had stunned Carter, that Carter was using the drive like a boxer uses the standing eight count. But maybe not. Hard to read people. He could be stunned. He could be cunning.
Ten minutes later, they slid into a booth at Mustang Sally’s, a sixties-themed diner located inside a Ford car dealership. The booth had red vinyl seating and tried very hard to bring on nostalgia, but when you come from New Jersey, faux diners just don’t cut it.
“You after money?” Carter asked him.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” He let loose a long breath. “I guess I could start off by doubting your claim.”
“You could,” Wilde agreed.
“We could do a paternity test.”
“We could.”
“But I don’t really see the need. There is a resemblance between us.”
Wilde said nothing.
Carter ran his hand through his white mane of hair. “Man, this is weird. I have three daughters. Did you know that?”