Zig rolled his eyes. “Do you even realize how much bad dialogue you stole from Law & Order? You’re the one who brought me in—you asked for my help. So until you have proof that Roddy found this old secret about his sister—”
“You keep acting like this is your investigation. It’s not,” O.J. insisted. “My old unit . . . our specialty was the problems that Uncle Sam preferred to keep off the front page—and making sure that every loose end got properly buried. But it’s the one truth every mortician knows. Just because you bury something doesn’t mean it goes away.”
“Listen—”
“No. You listen: I have two soldiers who were murdered, one of whom I knew so long, I wouldn’t be sitting here today without him. I owe his wife, I owe his children, and I intend to repay that debt, Mr. Zigarowski. I’m telling you how to help me, so if you hear from Nola—”
“You keep saying it’s her, but for all you know, Mint and Rashida were the ones who took your stolen item. Maybe that’s why they were killed: someone finally figured out it was them.”
A swell of rage took O.J.’s face, his clenched jaw about to open. It reminded Zig of the way his father used to yell, exploding with a roar. To Zig’s surprise, though, as quick as the wave of rage hit, it disappeared, O.J. staring straight up and taking another long visual drink of the Hawaiian ocean palms, the coconut cocktail, and the purple lei. “Mr. Zigarowski, in the military, do you know what the single best skill is to rise in the ranks?”
“I’d take a guess, but you’re about to tell me.”
“The ability to tell the difference between what you can change versus what’s inevitable,” O.J. said, his chin in the air, still focused intently on the Hawaiian palms. “It’s where you’re currently failing.”
Now Zig was staring up at the Hawaiian photo.
“You think she’ll come around, but she won’t, Mr. Zigarowski. That’s how Nola is. It’s how she always is. You can give her all your attention . . . you can take a bullet to keep her safe . . . you can find the truth, catch Mint’s killers, exonerate her in every way. But you’ll still never be part of her life.”
“That’s not why I’m doing this.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” O.J. shot back. “We all need what we need. I know her a long time. Every Nola story has the same ending. When the smoke clears and the blood’s being mopped from the floor, you’re gonna put your hand up for that high five—and she’s gonna slip out a side door and get as far away from you as humanly possible. It’s what she does. Inevitable.”
Outside in the parking lot, a black Chevy Suburban pulled in near the side entrance. Zig didn’t notice. He was still eyeing the ceiling’s Hawaiian paradise, wondering what photo he’d choose if he needed to bring himself some calm. Nothing came to mind.
“Mr. Zigarowski, if Nola or Roddy contact you again—”
Zig’s phone started ringing. Caller ID told him the rest.
“Tell me that’s Nola, and I’ll believe the universe is fair,” O.J. said.
“It’s not. But I need you to know, I’m not working against you, Colonel. If I hear from either of them, I’ll let you know.”
“I have your word on that?”
The phone rang again. Zig headed for the door. “Sorry, Colonel, I really need to take this.”
O.J. yelled something else, but Zig was already racing up the main hallway, toward the wishing well, still trying to think of a photo that brought him calm.
“Ziggy, you there?” a familiar voice announced in his ear. It was his assistant at the funeral home, Puerto Rican Andy. “I made the calls,” Andy said as Zig ran out the front door, into the main lot. “You need to get back here. I spoke to SuperStars, the modeling place— She gave me a name—”