“Tell me about the Reds,” Nola insisted.
“The who?”
“The ones who attacked you. The redheads. They call themselves the Reds.”
“That’s a terrible name,” Zig said, opening the window on his left as the steam was quickly sucked toward the crack. “The big one—the guy—I think his name was . . .” He paused, Nola watching to see if his tongue touched his incisor, which Zig did when he was lying. “She called him Seabass. I’m guessing Sebastian.”
True.
“The woman is Reagan,” Nola replied. “Both were discharged years ago, for selling stolen military gear on eBay. I need to know what they said, Mr. Zigarowski. Anything that they might’ve—”
“Black House. They wanted to know what I knew about Black House.”
“And?”
“Truthfully, I was just trying to stall—or at least fish for info. She said Black House . . . She called it an online meeting place.”
Nola made a face. “She only told you because she was planning to kill you.”
“I know that. You think I’m a moron?”
“Mr. Zigarowski, you don’t want to know what I think.”
“Then tell me,” he growled with a look she’d never seen before. “Because even when I put aside the fact that two sociopath redheads probably still want me dead—and that’s a hard thing to put aside—your insults and the whole lone-wolf act are starting to wear thin. You obviously came here for a reason, Nola. I’d like to hear it.”
In truth, she was surprised to see him this pissed. She didn’t think he had it in him. But as Nola knew since she was little, everyone has it in them. “You’ve obviously had a hard day.”
“No, this is way beyond hard day! My friend . . . Andy . . . he . . . he . . . he . . . Right now, he’s in the back of an ambulance, racing to the hospital! That’s his blood—look . . .” Reaching inside the shower, he grabbed the soap, which was streaked with dark red stripes. “That’s his blood!”
“Mr. Zigarowski, if you don’t lower your voice—”
“Then what? You’ll treat me like you already treat me? I get that you don’t like me, Nola—and I know it physically kills you when someone actually offers you help—but let me give you one unarguable fact: the only reason you’re standing in this tiny bathroom is because there’s someone out there right now who is scaring the shit out of you. Maybe it’s the cops, or the Reds, or—oh, let’s just be honest for once, we know it’s your brother.”
“You know nothing about him.”
“I don’t need to. The facts are obvious. Someone put a bullet in the head of your friend Archie Mint—and because you and Mint had a relationship—”
“We didn’t have a relationship.”
“Because he was your commander . . . because you feel like you owe him something . . . because back in the day, he bought you a paint set that you used to write ‘Rosebud’ on your sled . . . Whatever the damn reason is, Nola, you’ve been frantically searching for his killer. But in your usual scorched-earth approach, the only person in this entire damn mess who you absolutely know is on your side . . . is me.”
“I know why you’re trying to help, Mr. Zigarowski—and it has nothing to do with concern for me.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Nola stood there, watching him grip the shower curtain, nearly pulling the rod down with it.
“Maggie. You think this is just about Maggie,” Zig challenged, referring to his daughter. “That I’ve put my life on the line—me digging into this case—that it’s just about the fact you two were in Girl Scouts? And you think I’m the narcissist here? At Mint’s funeral, did you . . . did you even see his wife? What about his kids, whose lives are now in ruin—the son who couldn’t stop sobbing, and his daughter—”