“There was a break-in,” O.J. said.
“What?”
“A break-in. Five years ago. That’s what started all this. We had a break-in at Grandma’s Pantry.”
53
“So, like a robbery?”
“That’s not what I said,” O.J. replied.
Zig knew that tone. He replayed the facts. All those vaccines in one place . . . the smallpox alone. If a terrorist got their hands on that . . . “What’d they get?”
“They didn’t get anything.”
“So you stopped them? Or did someone—？” Zig caught himself, almost forgetting the real reason he was here. Nola. “This goes back to Nola, doesn’t it? She was there that night, too.”
“Mr. Zigarowski . . .”
“Can you please stop repeating my damn name!?”
“Then can you please shut your mouth and listen for once!? Nola’s job—as Artist-in-Residence—do you even know what it was?”
“She did paintings for the Army.”
“No,” O.J. said, using the word like a blade. “She did paintings of disasters. That’s why Nola came to Grandma’s Pantry. To bear witness. To see up close the shitstorm Mint and his crew were dealing with.”
His crew. Zig made a mental note. From the sound of it, O.J. wasn’t there that night.
“What matters is, when the break-in happened, Mint was the one who got the call,” O.J. explained. “His team was first on scene. Nola came a few hours after, but you can imagine what she was walking into—everyone scrambling, people yelling at each other. And that’s the thing about stressful situations—they’ll make you do things you’d never do otherwise,” O.J. said, letting the statement hang in the air.
“Colonel, I know you’re amping up the drama to impress me, but I have no idea what you’re getting at. I thought you said the thieves didn’t get anything.”
“No. I said the people who broke in didn’t get anything. But someone did.”
“And that’s—？ You’re saying Nola stole something that night?”
O.J. didn’t answer.
“One of the bioterror samples, or—？”
“Mr. Zigarowski, you asked me what happened. I told you. Five years ago, on a night everyone would rather forget, we had a break-in at Grandma’s Pantry. The thieves were caught. Yet what they were targeting still somehow walked away.”
“But to blame Nola . . . Can you even prove—？”
“Prove? Here’s what I know: Mint was there that night, and he’s dead. Rashida was there, and she’s dead. And when it all went down five years ago, well . . . considering that Artists-in-Residence get to choose the different disasters they want to paint, it seemed pretty damn convenient that of all the places Nola could’ve painted that night, she picked Grandma’s Pantry. So asking her to now come in for a sit-down seems like a pretty reasonable request—even if it’s just to understand the sudden reappearance of her brother.”
Zig froze.
“I told you, we know you’ve been talking to Roddy,” O.J. added. “I’d like to know what he said.”
“He’s looking for Nola. I’m doing the same.”
“So this is all just coincidence? Roddy shows up, and suddenly Nola’s past is back to haunt her? Mr. Zigarowski, I asked your former coworkers here about you. They said you were a stubborn man . . . a loyal man . . . and definitely a lonely man. But not a na?ve one.”