Putting his ear to the door, Conrad heard electronic beeps and boings. “Are they—？”
Ms. Li nodded. A few weeks back, for his daughter Nessie’s birth day, Mr. Vess had bought an upright vintage video game—Frogger—original console, original paneling, refurbished joystick. Every day after school, this was their ritual. Daddy and daughter time.
“Yet if you think it’s worth bothering him,” Ms. Li added, like she was enjoying herself, “I guess I really can’t stop you, can I?”
Conrad glanced down at his phone, a single bead of sweat skiing down his square face. “He said to interrupt,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Ms. Li offered nothing but a shrug. Zzzt. Zzzzt.
“This is stupid. Mr. Vess told me if we found something—” Never finishing the sentence, Conrad rapped his knuckle against the office door.
The video game went silent. There was a shift in the air. Conrad took a half step back. He could feel it through the door. Like when the T. rex turns your way in Jurassic Park. Something was coming.
“It’s the turtles—I hate those turtles,” a slow voice grumbled through the door, using two distinct syllables for the word turtles. Mr. Vess always spoke slowly, every sentence expanding and filling the room, like he was daring people to interrupt.
“Mr. Vess?” Conrad asked, leaning in toward the closed door. “You talking to me or your d—？”
“Speak. Quickly,” Vess’s voice insisted, though it took five full seconds to get the words out. The door was still shut. He wasn’t opening it.
“Sir, I . . . uh . . . I found— That thing you—” Conrad paused, careful of who else was listening. “You should see this, Mr. Vess.”
The door opened just a few inches, Mr. Vess’s knife of a nose and yellow teeth glowing through the crack.
Conrad slid his phone toward the gap. It was yanked from his hand, the door still barely open.
Conrad could hear Mr. Vess breathing through his nose as he studied the photo on the phone.
“Who’s the cop?”
“You don’t wanna know,” Conrad said.
“And the guy with him?”
“That’s who Dover called in. Still trying to figure out why. From what we can tell, he’s got a personal interest in Mint’s case. Already making calls and sniffing everywhere.”
“He got a name?”
“Jim Zigarowski. They call him Zig.”
Mr. Vess continued staring at the photo, the glow of the phone lighting his face. He tended to see things in black and white. You’re good or you’re bad. Smart or dumb. Loyal or a rat.
“Dad, c’mooooon,” his daughter pleaded, the beeps and boings of Frogger starting up behind him.
“Call in the Reds.”
“Sir, you sure that’s a—？” Conrad stopped, started again. “There are easier ways t—”
Vess shot him a look. Argument over. As Vess had learned years ago from his grandmother, some businesses succeed by making noise; others profit only when there’s quiet. “Call in the Reds. And I assume you have an address for Mr. Zigarowski?”
11
“Ziggy, say the word and I’ll send help,” Waggs said in his ear.
Zig stayed silent as he got out of his car in his driveway. His right hand skated toward the knife in his pants pocket, while his other hand tucked his phone into his shirt pocket. Even as Roddy approached and Zig slammed the car door, Zig didn’t shut off his phone. If things went south, better for Waggs to be listening in.