As Zig tugged open the car door, he saw that the floor was littered with fast-food wrappers, Styrofoam coffee cups, and a swirl of plastic supermarket bags. Cat hair was sprinkled across the passenger seat, along with what looked like the top from a stick of deodorant. Nola wasn’t just driving this car; she was living in it.
Sliding inside, Zig gripped the doorframe tightly, holding his breath to hide the fact that his legs and back were on fire.
“You’re in pain. I’m sorry about that,” Nola said.
“I’m fine.”
“You smell like Silvadene. That’s burn cream. The back of your hair is burned away.” She waited for Zig to say something, but all he did was fidget with the cap from the deodorant. Shaking her head, Nola hit the gas, pulling out of the hospital roundabout. “Stop trying to fix everything—it’s why you frustrate people, Mr. Zigarowski.”
“Then I guess I’m on brand.”
Leaving the hospital behind, Nola made a quick left onto Bergen Street, which was buried in a snarl of traffic. Up ahead, past the IHOP and KFC, a city worker in a cherry picker had his crane extended up to a broken traffic light. A motorcycle cop stood at the intersection, doing his best to direct the crush of lunchtime pedestrians and honking cars.
“Something tells me people in Newark aren’t good at taking turns,” Zig said.
Nola didn’t even grin. Her jaw was clenched as she gripped the steering wheel like she was strangling it.
“Nola, I really do appreciate the ride, but I’m assuming you came here for more than just—”
“I didn’t know about Elijah.”
Zig turned, confused. “Elijah? Why would—？”
“Last time I saw you. At the funeral home. In the shower. You told me you were headed to see Elijah—to ask him about Grandma’s Pantry,” Nola said, still staring straight ahead. “But I’d never— If I knew Elijah was the one who stole the money all those years ago, I would’ve stopped you. When I heard the Reds were that close, I tried calling you. I wouldn’t let you walk into danger like that.”
In front of them, the traffic had barely moved, extending half the block. Nola was still murdering the steering wheel.
“And that’s what’s been weighing on you?” Zig asked. “That you weren’t able to figure out, all by yourself, the case that stumped everyone for over half a decade?”
“You don’t understand. I went to see him. When Mint and Rashida were killed, Elijah was one of my first stops. Even back in the day, he was top of the suspect list. Always a self-promoter, but smart. Didn’t spend his money for years. Had a good alibi with his brother-in-law for funding his stupid bar. So when you said you were going to see him—” Nola stopped, eyes locked on the cherry picker. “I’m sorry you got hurt. Ms. Waggs showed me the reports. Third-degree burns . . . I could’ve— I shouldn’t’ve let you go there.”
Zig sat in silence, staring down at the deodorant cap like it was a manuscript of ancient wisdom. “You done?”
“I don’t want to hear your stupid lectures.”
“It’s not a lecture, Nola. I appreciate better than nearly anyone what a powerful narcotic guilt is. And I know it’s even more potent when you think I jumped into this case because of you. So let me just say it: I’m a grown man. When it came to Mint’s case, I was the mortician of record—”
“The only reason O.J. brought you in—”
“Was to get to you—I’m well aware. But that doesn’t change one immutable fact: this case smelled from the start. That’s why, at the funeral, I followed the family into the gym. Whether you showed up or not, I would’ve looked into Mint’s death.”