Roddy offered a flat gaze, handing Zig the tablet. “Swipe left . . .”
Onscreen was a new photo, of a burned-out car—half of one, really—the back seat and trunk completely missing, the blackened car sheared in half.
“This was yesterday, around midnight, down by SunCo,” Roddy explained, referring to one of the many refineries near the Philadelphia airport.
Zig swiped left, to another angle on the car, this one slightly closer. Through the missing front windshield, there was a single figure—scorched from fire—slumped toward the steering wheel, her head dangling in that way that heads are never meant to dangle.
“Police report called it a suicide. Said the car rammed full speed through the refinery’s metal fence, crashing into one of their big rinsing tanks. When you mix chemicals and combustion like that . . .”
Zig swiped to the next picture, a crime scene close-up of just the woman, her body burned so badly that she was nothing but a charred black crisp shaped like a human. One of her arms had somehow been spared, showing a patch of dark brown skin.
Rashida Robinson.
Fallen #2,548, Zig thought, catching himself. This wasn’t his job anymore. He wasn’t assigned to put this woman to rest. Still . . .
“It’s hard to look at, yes?” Roddy asked.
Sadly, for Zig, it wasn’t. During his decades at Dover, the very worst part of the job was that he got used to it. Death should be a stranger, not someone familiar—it’s why he left Dover and its never-ending stream of young cadets sliced down in their prime, their families clinging to God and hating God all in the same breath. It’s why Zig had sworn he’d never go back, and yet here he was, staring down at this woman’s burnt body and blackened teeth.
With a few swipes to the right, Zig returned to the back of the painting and its three names.
Archie Mint
Rashida Robinson
Elijah King
Two days ago, Mint had been shot dead outside his home. Last night, Rashida Robinson was found dead, too. It was a hell of a coincidence. Or, Zig was starting to realize, not a coincidence at all. Whatever really went on all those years ago at Grandma’s Pantry, someone seemed to be working their way down the list of the investigators who were stationed there.
“You understand now, yes?” Roddy asked. “That leaves Elijah . . .”
“And Nola,” Zig whispered, the air going quiet. “She was just the painter, though. That doesn’t mean anyone’s coming for her.”
“You sure about that?” Roddy asked, grabbing the tablet, his spidery fingers swiping to a new photo. He held it up for Zig. Onscreen was a muscular man in a suit, curled on the ground and holding his leg, clearly in pain.
“Staff Sergeant Buddy Adcock, one of the undercover agents stationed outside Mint’s funeral. He’s a meat eater,” Roddy said. “Apparently, he surprised Nola as she headed toward the parking lot, tried to put cuffs on her.”
“Oh, jeez. What’d she do?”
“Yanked a pen from his front pocket and jammed it into his kneecap, popping it like a bottle cap. He’s currently being prepped for surgery to repair the dislocation.”
Zig stared at the photo, at the pen protruding from the staff sergeant’s knee, and at the man’s oversized pistol, lying there on the sidewalk. An MP7. Submachine gun. Not a normal service weapon, which meant this guy Adcock was . . .
“Special Forces,” Zig whispered.
“At a local funeral. In a small town,” Roddy said. “That seem normal to you, Mr. Zigarowski?”
Zig stayed silent, and now he was the one checking over his own shoulder. Yesterday, the higher-ups at Dover had pulled him onto this case, clearly hoping to put their eyes on Nola. But if Special Forces was involved—pulling weapons like that—they weren’t just trying to talk to Nola. They were hunting her.