“Or they were doing exactly what I was: hacking into Mint’s account, trying to figure out what’s really going on.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, it wasn’t me,” Zig insisted. No tongue to his incisor. Truth.
“That wasn’t my concern.”
Zig looked up, his eyes narrowing. “You think it was your brother.”
She forgot how quick he was.
Nola stood there, the Prince song giving way to the Spin Doctors singing about a pocket full of kryptonite.
“Nola, we’re hiding in a bathroom and playing old eighties songs just to avoid him. If you think Roddy was the other person in Mint’s account—”
“How did the Reds know to come here?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Last night, they went to Zion’s house and slit his throat. Today, they showed up here, gunning for you. How’d they know you were working the case?”
“Maybe they saw me at the funeral. Or someone from Dover told them.”
“Maybe. Though what about the timing of their attack? They were about to kill you and your employee . . .”
“Andy.”
“They were about to kill you and Andy. Then Roddy got here just in time. Saved you all. What a hero.”
“I thought the same. When I asked Roddy, he seemed shocked by the accusation. And I hate to say it, but I believe him.”
“That’s a mistake.”
“So you think Roddy . . . you think he’s playing puppet master? That he found Mint’s Black House account, then set this whole thing up . . . and then what? That he brought in the Reds and sent them after me, somehow hoping it would flush you out of hiding? No offense, but when Roddy burst into the funeral home . . . He’s the one who shot Sebastian.”
“Did he kill him?”
“He shot him in the face!”
“I’m not saying he’s some criminal mastermind or that I have the full picture yet, Mr. Zigarowski—but I guarantee you, you don’t know who he is at his core.”
“Then let me tell you what I do know: your friend Colonel Mint, on the night he was killed—he wasn’t eating alone at that steak house, was he? He was having a private sit-down with another old friend of yours from Grandma’s Pantry—Rashida Robinson. In my experience, Nola, people don’t have secret dinners behind their wife’s back unless they have something that’s worth keeping secret.”
“Colonel Mint was a good man.”
“He also cheated on his wife.”
“And was a decorated soldier who tried his best to act with honor. Something rare these days.”
“I’m not judging him. I’m just trying to save your life,” Zig insisted, careful to keep his voice lower than the music. “At Dover, I saw Mint’s files—his medical examiner report, his death certificate—both were altered. Colonel Whatley’s been fighting to keep things quiet.”
“I told you, Whatley’s a toolbag.”
“I’m not disagreeing. But here’s the thing he’s right about: years ago, there was a break-in at Grandma’s Pantry. Alarms went off, investigative teams arrived, and as Artist-in-Residence, you raced in to do a painting. But something went wrong, didn’t it? The bad guys got nabbed, yet someone still swiped something from the government’s secret warehouse.”
“If we knew who it was, we would’ve had them arrested.”
“I’m sure you would’ve. But right now, for some reason, people are showing up dead—and in case you haven’t noticed, whoever’s be hind this seems pretty damn focused on your old Grandma’s Pantry crew: You. Mint. Rashida. Some guy named Elijah King. It’s not a long list, Nola—and you’re right at the top of it.”