Glancing over her shoulder into the sun-drenched backyard, Nola noticed two different paths through the tomato garden—multiple footprints, like a team.
Nola pulled out her pad and pencils. For the next few minutes, she stood there by the sink, sketching the body, the kitchen, then the rest of the house, trying to see what she missed.
A quick sweep of the bedrooms revealed a stash of synthetic marijuana, Adderall, and Molly—all hidden in a fireproof toolbox in Zion’s closet—plus nearly four thousand dollars in cash literally tucked under his mattress.
Drug dealer. That’s what it looked like—or was supposed to look like. Small time. Trying to work his way up. So was that what this was about? Some petty deal that went wrong? Nola stared at her notepad, at her drawing of Zion’s stash of pot and Molly. It didn’t seem right. Colonel Mint was pure polish. He didn’t drink coffee, much less buy drugs from some twentysomething scrub. More important, whoever killed Zion, they left the stash behind—plus the cash. When they came here, their mission was clear: take down Zion. So was this punishment for Zion killing Mint—or just a way to keep him quiet?
Still rolling through the permutations, Nola made her way back to the living room, where she sketched the pale green shoji screen, the bamboo bench, and all the other overpriced accessories that looked like they were from West Elm’s Japanese collection.
Every other room in the town house was bland, practically bare. Upstairs, Zion’s bed didn’t even have a headboard, much less all this Japanese décor.
Zion was entertaining down here, doing business. Trying to make an impression, Nola thought as her pencil skittered across the page, giving shape to the black lacquered bookcase with upturned shelves that resembled the flying eaves of an Asian rooftop. More Chinese than Japanese, Nola thought.
Item by item, she filled in the shelves of the bookcase, drawing quick renditions of a narrow Japanese bud vase, a paper lantern, some old books, a jade tea set, and . . .
On the page, Nola sketched a bright yellow doll—a stuffed animal. It was a Minion, actually, from Despicable Me, with one big eye and overalls that—
Nola looked up from the page, at the bookshelf. Then back toward the living area.
Every single item in the room—the couch, the lamp, the shoji screen, the tea set, every knickknack on the bookcase—it was all Japanese.
Except this yellow Minion.
Cocking an eyebrow, Nola headed for the shelf. The Minion’s overalls had a little black dot at the center, like a belly button, but as she got closer, the way it shone . . .
Nanny cam.
Of course Zion had a nanny cam. He was doing business here. Even drug dealers need an insurance policy in case something goes sideways.
Two minutes later, Nola was sitting at Zion’s laptop, a USB cord running from the computer to the port underneath the Minion’s foot.
Waiting for the camera to connect with the desktop, she also noticed—onscreen—an icon for Black House. Zion apparently had an account—or at the very least, was watching someone else’s.
Right there, Nola’s brain flashed back to the scene . . . when she’d first logged into Black House and saw Mint’s digital avatar, or whoever was using his avatar . . . There was another soldier there. A Hispanic one, with close-set eyes. That was Zion. No doubt about it, Nola realized, looking back at the body in the kitchen. Yet as she replayed it in her head, it begged the question: Who was Zion meeting with in Black House? Someone who was a friend, or was that who killed him?
The question would have to wait. On the desktop, there was a ping as the icon for the nanny cam appeared.
Wasting no time, Nola hit Play.
Onscreen, the last few minutes of Zion’s life bloomed into view.
45