Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

“I also talked to Naomi’s dad.”

“And?”

“He said Naomi’s mother was abusive.”

He filled her in on the details of his conversation with Bernard Pine. As Ava listened, her eyes glistened with tears. “Poor Naomi. I knew the relationship hadn’t been good obviously. But that?” Ava shook her head. “I better go.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You want me to stop by your place later?” he asked.

The words just came out. Wilde hadn’t planned them. That wasn’t like him.

Ava looked surprised. She took another swipe at her eyes and turned to him. “When?”

“I don’t know. Tonight maybe. Tomorrow. We can just talk.”

Ava looked out the front windshield rather than at him.

“No pressure,” Wilde added. “I may not be free anyway, what with Crash and Naomi—”

“No, I’d like that.”

Ava reached through the open window and put her hand on his face. He waited. She looked as though she was about to say more, but in the end, she just took her hand away. She put the car in reverse, pulled out, and headed back toward the school.

“So you got Arnie Poplin ready?” Hester asked.

Hester stood facing the computer monitor in the Maynards’ state-of-the-art studio/office. The room was white and steel and looked more like something you’d find in a refurbished Manhattan loft rather than this old estate, but there it was. There were television screens lining the walls. Her producer Allison Grant was on the line.

Rola Naser, someone Hester had known for many years, was setting up the live feed. Hester had always liked Rola, admired her strength under adversity. When Rola and David were teens at the same high school, she’d even hoped that maybe her David would ask her out. She even pushed him a little, surprise, surprise. David never listened, of course, claiming that it would be “weird” because Rola was “like Wilde’s sister.”

What if he had? Would everything have changed? Would David still be alive?

“Okay, he’s connected in now,” Allison said.

Hester shook away the ghosts and leaned toward Rola. “Did you hear that?”

“Got it,” Rola said as she typed.

Hester’s idea was a simple albeit an unreliable one. Saul Strauss had said that his source on the Maynard tapes was Arnie Poplin. Arnie Poplin was, if nothing else, an attention whore. Hester got Allison to track him down with the promise of a “pre-interview” that could lead to a live segment.

Rola said, “You see that monitor on that wall?”

“You mean that gigantic TV?”

“Yes, Hester, the gigantic TV.”

“I see it. I think you could see it from space.”

“Stand over there,” Rola said. “I’m going to patch Arnie Poplin through.”

“Stand where exactly?”

“There’s a spike on the floor.”

And so there was. A spike was what studios or theaters called the mark, usually made with electrical tape, to tell you where to stand or where to place a piece of the set. Hester stood on it.

Rola said, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. Will Arnie be able to see you in the room?”

“No. His camera will be focused on your face only. It’s why I chose that monitor.”

“Great, thanks.” Hester smiled at her. “It’s really good to see you, Rola.”

“And you, Hester. Ready?”

Hester nodded. Rola clicked a few more keys, and the screen came to life. Arnie Poplin’s familiar (though more bloated) face filled the screen, huge and close-up, too close-up — see-his-skin-pores close-up. Hester was tempted to take a step back, but alas, the spike.

“Hi, Arnie.”

He scowled a little too theatrically. “What the hell is this, Hester?”

They’d met over the years at one thing or another. Twenty-five years ago, Arnie Poplin had starred in a hit family sitcom as the hilarious neighbor. For three years he was beloved and famous. Then, poof, it was over. Like many, he ended up fighting the withdrawal pains from two of society’s most potent addictions — drugs and fame. People underestimate the power of that bright, warm beacon known as fame — and how dark and cold it gets when that beacon goes out.

So Arnie desperately tried to hang on. Allison Grant half joked that Arnie Poplin would appear at the opening of a garage door. He tried to bow and scrape his way onto game shows, reality shows, home and garden shows, cooking shows — anything to turn on that beacon — less bright, less warm — for even a few seconds.

Hester said, “I wanted to ask you—”

“You think I’m an idiot?”

He was sweaty and red-faced.

“I saw your Saul Strauss segment, Hester. Do you know what you called me?”

“A celebrity has-been-turned-conspiracy-nut,” Hester said.

His mouth dropped open in what she assumed was mock surprise. It took him a few seconds to work up the bluster again. Actors. “You expect me to just forgive you for that?”

“You have two choices here, Arnie. You can disconnect this call or Skype or whatever this video-cloudy thingy is, or you can tell me your side of it.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Probably not. But if you can convince me you’re telling the truth, even a little bit, I’ll have you on the show.”

“Solo segment?” Arnie rubbed his face. “I don’t want some point-counterpoint crap.”

“One-on-one interview. Just you and me.”

He crossed his arms and pretended to think it over for a millisecond. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the Rusty Eggers tapes you claim Dash Maynard has in his possession.”

“They exist.”

“How do you know?”

“I was on The Rusty Show . You know this, right?”

“Right.”

“Big ratings when I was on. No one talks about that.”

Hester sighed. “Arnie.”

“Right, right. So anyway, I overheard them. Rusty and Dash. They were talking about the tapes. Dash swore he’d destroyed them.”

“So if Dash destroyed them—”

“Oh come on. No one really destroys tapes, Hester. You know that. And Rusty knew it. That’s why he was so upset. He knew that Dash would never get rid of them totally. Why would he?”

“Dash Maynard swears he doesn’t have any damaging tapes.”

“Yeah, well, Dash is a selfish prick, isn’t he? He has this big empire. You ever been to his house? It’s like something out of Gatsby.”

“Have you seen the tapes?” Hester asked.

“Me? No.”

“So how do you know they exist?”

“I heard them.”

“Heard the tapes?”

“No. I heard Dash and Rusty arguing about them.”

“What did they say exactly?”

“It was late at night, see. I was the only one still around. They thought I was gone. That they were alone. Can I tell you the truth though?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice, Arnie.”

“I passed out on the toilet.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah, I was in the studio office. In a toilet stall. Sitting down on—”

“I got the visual, Arnie.”

“Anyway, I was snorting some coke, whatever. I don’t know. I passed out. When I woke up, the bathroom was totally dark. It was ten at night. I pulled up my pants. They were still down around my ankles.”

“Hey, thanks for that detail.”

“You want the whole story, don’t you?”

“Boxers or briefs?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” Hester said. “You pulled up your pants.”

“Right, I pull up my pants. But like I said, it’s totally dark. I mean, pitch black. I feel my way to the latch. You know, the one that opens the stall.”

“Yes, Arnie, I know about those latches. We have them in women’s bathrooms too.”