“I heard you’re leaving,” Roddy said, using the elbow of his cast to push the button and raise his hospital bed.
“Who told you that?”
“Josephine, the nurse—she’s chatty. Plus, the clothes are kinda a giveaway,” Roddy added, pointing to the khakis and polo shirt that Zig was wearing. Both bulged at the back from the thick gauze underneath. “And . . . y’know . . .” Roddy added, pointing to the half a dozen mylar balloons Zig was holding, “。 . . all the pity presents.”
“They’re not pity—you earned them,” Zig said, tying the balloons to the foot of Roddy’s bed. Waggs had sent them to Zig, but for three days now, Roddy’s room had been empty. No flowers, no cards, nothing.
“You’re a good person, Mr. Zig—though I need to know: Were you always coming in to say goodbye, or only because you heard the FBI was here?”
“C’mon, what kinda monster you think I am?” After a pause, he added, “Though how’d you know I knew about the FBI?”
“Josephine. She said you gave her twenty bucks for a list of everyone who came to visit me.”
“She really is chatty, isn’t she?”
“Her brother and dad are both police. It’s in her blood. Also, you’re a mortician. No one likes morticians,” Roddy said, glancing up at Jeopardy! on the muted TV. “That’s a joke, Mr. Zig.”
“I could tell,” Zig said with a laugh. “But if we can get back to your visit with the FBI—”
“They found the money Elijah stole—the twenty-two million—most of it surprisingly still there, split among bank accounts in the Philippines, Burma, and the usual Caribbean islands. His lawyer’s trying to make a deal, but the prosecutors aren’t having it,” Roddy explained. “What’s interesting, though, is they finally got into Mint’s Black House account—his bank accounts, too. Elijah didn’t make a single payment to Archie Mint or Rashida Robinson.”
“So that money Mint was getting . . . those $9,500 and $8,500 payments . . .”
“Mint was paying himself, for months now. Selling stocks, cashing in bonds—even took an early withdrawal from his 401（k）。”
Zig nodded, putting the final pieces together. “Mint was getting ready to leave his wife.”
“It happens in marriages every damn day. Raiding the family’s accounts so when he started the divorce, he’d have money put away for his new life.”
“Does Tessa know?”
“She does now.”
Zig nodded. Since the moment they learned about Grandma’s Pantry, they’d been convinced that the key to the case was figuring out who took the twenty-two million. O.J. thought the same, which explained why he and his Dover crew came racing to the crime scene, took over the investigation, and tried to keep things quiet. But as O.J.—and Zig—now understood, Mint’s murder had no connection to Grandma’s Pantry. They were two totally separate incidents—that is, except for the fact that Mint and Rashida were sleeping together then, and clearly sleeping together now.
In fact, when it came right down to it, the real reason O.J.’s forensic reports had made no mention of Rashida being in the car, well . . . it was no different than what motivated Mint’s son in the first place. It wasn’t some grand government scheme, but something personal and private—an infidelity that was about to tear the Mint family apart.
In the end, O.J. was simply trying to be a loyal friend, hiding Mint’s second phone—and Rashida’s location—in hopes of sparing his family the embarrassment of finding out that Mint was again cheating on his wife.
“You can be a great soldier and still be a bad husband,” Zig finally said.