According to Colonel Whatley, all those years ago at Grandma’s Pantry, something bad went down—a breakin, a disaster, he called it—which is why Nola came to paint it in the first place. From what O.J. said, the people who broke in didn’t get anything. But someone did.
Okay, Nola, what would make you steal something? Zig wondered, thinking of Nola’s history of disagreements with her superiors. Something that pissed you off? Or maybe something illegal that you saw someone else stealing? To Zig, it didn’t make sense. Nola wasn’t a thief. Though on that night, someone clearly was.
So what’s worth stealing? That was the question, he realized, re playing O.J.’s description of the Grandma’s Pantry warehouses. Antidotes, vaccines . . . all the germ warfare vials would be worth millions on the black market. O.J. also mentioned sedatives, which five years ago . . . That was the height of the opioid crisis. Grandma’s Pantry would’ve had enough doses to cover a city. If someone tried stealing that . . .
Zig rolled it again through his brain. As theories go, both made sense, but the one loose thread that kept sticking out from the sweater . . . was O.J. himself. Dover’s wing commander wasn’t just a passive bystander. He used to be in the same investigative unit as both victims—Mint and Rashida. A unit like that would have tons of resources to call on. So would Dover. But instead of calling in those resources, O.J. brought in Zig.
Was O.J. being smart . . . or just desperate? Either way, he was breaking protocol. Zig wasn’t sure what it meant, but he did know this: for O.J., something about this case was touching a nerve. The colonel was rattled, this whole thing somehow personal.
On top of that, according to Mint’s wife, it seemed pretty clear that Mint and Rashida had had an affair. Did Nola know that back when they were at Grandma’s Pantry? And far more important, what was Mint doing with a second, apparently secret, phone?
It made Zig think of the third name on the back of Nola’s painting. Elijah King. According to the logbook, O.J. was trying to track him down. No response. Time for Zig to reach out as well.
Following the curve of Route 1 past the fire station, Zig again glanced down at his own phone in the car’s cup holder. Still no word from Waggs, who was the only person with enough security clearance to get a look at whatever old files might still exist from Grandma’s Pantr—
Zig’s phone vibrated with a shudder. A text, from Puerto Rican Andy.
You far? Andy asked.
Two minutes, Zig typed back, trying to refocus. Earlier, Andy had tracked down someone at SuperStars Modeling, someone who knew Zig’s daughter. It’s bad, Ziggy. Get back here. Now.
Zig bit the skin on the inside of his lip. With a tug of the steering wheel, he skidded into the parking lot of Calta’s Funeral Home. But as he parked in his usual spot on the side of the building, something caught his eye.
The red light. A single bulb, above the employee entrance.
Decades ago, during a private viewing, one of the flower delivery guys had barged through the side entrance, practically crashing into an elderly mother saying goodbye to her middle-aged son. The next day, the red lightbulb was installed—an unsubtle signal that, when lit, meant Stop. Client inside. Come around front.
Zig got out of the car and headed for the front door, already confused. Mrs. Paoli was buried two days ago. Did someone new come in? If they did, Andy would usually say something. Yet as Zig turned the corner and reached the front parking lot . . .
Dead empty, not a single car in sight. He looked around the side. Puerto Rican Andy’s white van was where it always was, next to Zig’s car. No other vehicles. So whoever was inside . . . they walked here?
Zig glanced at Route 1, where a scattering of cars blew past, quickly disappearing. This was a commercial district. No one walked here.
Zig looked back at the funeral home, at the red light. His arms felt heavy, his skin like a fraying rag. Sometimes in life, there seemed to be an invisible rope pulling you toward something—and other times, it seemed abundantly clear you’re supposed to stay away.