“What?” Boyboy gasps. “There was no camera on the network I hacked.”
“I know. It must have been separate. Or it is now. Anyway, the footage from that night is gone. David Mwika took it when he disappeared. But Michael says he knows where Mwika is and can get it.”
“And do you believe him?”
I can’t look Boyboy in the face and tell him Michael got his information from his father. It sounds too ludicrous. “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, we’ve got time, right? Even after I get the data, you need a few days to decrypt everything. Think about it, Boyboy. A video. Proof, once and for all, that Greyhill did it.”
“So where is Mwika?”
I sit back. “Michael won’t tell me. He thinks I’ll bail.” I incline my head. “He’s right, of course . . .”
Boyboy puts up both hands to stop me. “Let me make sure I understand. You made a deal where Mr. Omoko may be forced to wait for his money while you play detective?”
“No. Omoko has already agreed to wait a week while you decrypt everything anyway. And he knows the bank accounts are part of what needs decrypting. I just used the time cushion we already had to make a deal with Michael—and also, you know, I thought I might need to get back into Greyhill’s office. And I was right.”
Boyboy lets all of this sink in. “And what if I had got all of it?”
I avoid his eye. “Well, you didn’t, so stop complaining. I’ll get everything this time. Oh, and I need a new USB thingy. Do you have one? Michael broke the other one.”
Boyboy doesn’t move. “But this deal you’ve made doesn’t change anything, right? You give that reporter the dirt, I hack the bank accounts, money goes to the Goondas, you do whatever it is you’re going to do to Mr. Greyhill that I do not want to know about. Dirt. Money. Blood.”
I gnaw at my fingernail. “One, two, three. As soon as I’ve seen the video.”
“No matter what that video shows. No matter who killed your mom, right? You with me on this?” Boyboy speaks very slowly. “Omoko is expecting his money. If he doesn’t get it, those Goondas are going to kill you. And then they’ll kill me. And then they’ll go back and kill you again just to make sure you got the message.”
“I know. The plan hasn’t changed. The video is going to show that Mr. Greyhill killed my mom, and then I’ll know for sure, one hundred percent, once and for all.”
Boyboy looks ill. He opens his mouth to argue again, but he’s interrupted.
“Tina.”
Boyboy peers over my shoulder at the elevator shaft. “Is that him?”
I go to the hole. “Shh!” I say, looking down.
Michael’s bright eyes glitter in the light. “Toss me the key!”
“It hasn’t been ten minutes!” I whisper.
Michael points at his watch. “It has.”
I curse under my breath, but go to fish the key out of its hiding place in between the pages of one of my books. I drop it down, not even waiting to see if it hits Michael between his silly green eyes.
I hurry back to Boyboy. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s all going to be fine. Now, quick, before he climbs up here, is there anything worthwhile in that fifteen percent you did get?”
Boyboy still looks sick, but he sits up a little straighter. “There are a couple of juicy nuggets so far.” He touches some gibberish on his screen.
I can no more understand what he’s showing me than read hieroglyphics. “What exactly am I looking at?” I whisper.
“Okay, this is money going into Extracta’s bank accounts from China and Dubai.”
I whistle. “Those are the actual amounts? I don’t know if I can even count that high.”
“That’s all legal. But look at this.” He moves to another page. “Here’s more money going out to some military contractor in South Africa for ‘security advice.’ But it’s, like, a hundred thousand US dollars a pop for so-called consultant fees.”
“So?”
“So the security advice comes in wooden crates that, according to these invoices, weigh several tons.”
“He’s importing something.” I glance over my shoulder, but Michael hasn’t appeared yet. “You think it’s weapons?” I can barely keep the giddiness out of my voice.
Boyboy nods. “I’d bet my Birkin on it.”
“And are there any records of these weapons going to militias? Or gold buys? Anything else about Kasisi?”
“No, not yet.”
My smile fades. “Nothing?”
“This isn’t nothing!” He humphs, waving at his screen.
“You’re right,” I say, shaking my head. “Sorry. Does Bug Eye or Ketchup know about this?”
“No, they have no idea what I’m doing. I told them I haven’t been able to decrypt anything yet.”
“Good. But they know we didn’t get everything and I have to go back in.”
“Yeah.”
I start to stand to go check on Michael, but Boyboy puts a hand on my arm. “Tina, listen, this is getting complicated. Forget the video. You know who killed your mom. Maybe we should just cut our losses. I’ll find some other way to hack into Greyhill’s bank accounts. You don’t have to go back there.”
“I— No. We need everything. This isn’t enough to bring Mr. G down.”
Boyboy gives me a long, searching look. “Are you starting to doubt he killed her?”
I stand up. “No. I just . . . We have time. Bug Eye’s given us a week.”
Boyboy still looks dubious. “I don’t like it.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I-I can’t force you to keep working. Do you want out? I can tell Bug Eye something.”
He snorts. “And who exactly is going to decrypt Mr. G’s files?”
I don’t answer. He knows I don’t have anyone else who can do what he does.
He sighs, digs in his bag, and pulls out a new USB adapter. “Don’t lose this one. I don’t have any more, and making another will take a week.”
“And he has my earpiece.”
“You don’t need the earpiece if you’re not doing acrobatics to get in. Just use your phone like normal. The USB connects directly to it.”
I slip the adapter into my pocket. “Midnight tonight. I’ll tell Bug Eye to drive you up. And I’ll try to make sure he leaves Ketchup at home.”
Boyboy looks relieved. “Good.”
I shift from foot to foot. “And . . . thank you. For everything.”
Boyboy just clears his throat, looking past me. “Hello, gorgeous,” he says under his breath.
I turn to see Michael pushing himself up and over the lip of the elevator shaft. “Finally,” I say.
He wipes his brow on his shirtsleeve. “They have these things called stairs, you know.”
“Tiny doesn’t like folks crawling into her nest. Makes it damn near impossible,” Boyboy says. “She blocked off the stairs. Took me months before I could get up here in under a half hour.”
“Wait. Nest? Do you live here?” Michael asks me.
I give Boyboy a dirty look.
For a second I can see my home through Michael’s eyes: the rough concrete-block walls with gaping holes where windows and doors should be. Tattered plastic sheeting hung like curtains on the east side to keep the rain out. A grimy mattress, a small gas cylinder stove. My stack of stolen paperback books in one corner, fat with damp. A laundry line. Nothing on the walls. Dirt in the corners.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks—it’s not like he was invited. But something about the way he’s looking around makes me feel naked. I can tell he doesn’t see the amazing view of the city, or that I’m safe here. All he sees through his rich-boy eyes is a poor refugee girl living in a filthy, half-finished building.
“Not all of us can afford the Ring,” I say.
“It is a penthouse,” Boyboy offers. “Or it could be one day.
”
“No, I just mean, well . . .” Michael seems at a loss. “All by yourself?”
“Yes.”
He gapes for another few seconds, then seems to come to his senses. He walks to Boyboy and sticks out his hand. If Boyboy’s manner and outfit throw him, he at least has the good breeding not to say anything. “You must be, ah, Boyboy. I’m Michael Greyhill.”
“I know who you are, habibi,” Boyboy says to Michael, taking his hand briefly.
“So,” Michael says, looking at Boyboy’s computer, suddenly all business. “That’s where all the dirt on my dad is?”
Boyboy gives me an alarmed look. Michael eyes the computer, then the open hole of a window. Boyboy, seeing where this is going, hugs his computer to his chest. “I have copies! Don’t touch Priscilla!”
I step between the two of them. “Easy there, Mikey. Like you keep reminding me, we have a deal.”
Michael doesn’t move. His face twists. There is something dark there that makes my blood run cold. “What did you find?” he asks.
“I, ah, haven’t had time to decrypt everything yet,” Boyboy says, his voice squeaking.
“It takes a while.” I grab Michael’s arm and try to pull him. It’s like trying to pull a tree. “He’ll keep us informed on his progress. Come on. You’ve met Boyboy. Now we should go. It’s getting late, and your mother is going to be livid.”
Michael looks between the two of us, and for a few very uncomfortable seconds it feels like he’s reading my mind. “Tina, if you’re lying about actually having the data from my dad’s hard drive . . .”
“Don’t worry,” Boyboy pipes up, “we’ve got it. And what I’ve seen so far isn’t pretty. Gold laundering, arms deals. Your dad’s up to his eyeballs in very dirty dirt.”
Michael swallows. “Let me see.”
Boyboy sucks in a breath and cringes back.
“Not yet,” I say, trying not to show how nervous I suddenly am. What have I done, letting Mr. Greyhill’s son up here? “That’s not the deal. If you prove your dad didn’t kill Mama, then you can have it all back. But until then, hands off.”
Michael looks from me to Boyboy again. He’s bigger and stronger than both of us, and I’m not sure I can stop him if he decides to chuck the computer—or Boyboy, for that matter—off the roof.
“What if there’s something in there that can help us find your mom’s killer?” Michael asks.
“Boyboy will let me know if he finds anything, won’t you, Boyboy?”
I feel myself rising to my toes, ready to pounce if it looks like Michael’s going to make a move. I will not let him take Boyboy’s computer or hurt him. But then, right before my eyes, Michael’s angry, calculating expression melts away until all that’s left is his mask. He looks past Boyboy, out at the city. “You’re right, Tina, we should go.” He turns and walks to the elevator shaft.
I release my breath. “I’ll see you soon,” I say to Boyboy. I watch Michael lower himself in. I’m still tingling with adrenaline.
Boyboy gives me a look and mouths, Be careful.
I nod and follow Michael down.
NINETEEN
By the time we get back to the Greyhills’, it’s late afternoon. Michael tells me to go ahead upstairs while he gets a tongue-lashing from his mother. Fine by me. The less time I spend under Mrs. G’s eye, the better. I’m sure she’d love to blame Michael’s disappearance on my bad influence. Besides, I need to make a call.
I close myself in my bathroom again and pull out my phone. I had noticed three missed calls and five texts from Ketchup before Michael and I left my roof. Now there are six missed calls—four from Ketchup and two from Donatien. I dial Bug Eye’s number with a sick feeling in my stomach.
“Heard you were in town today,” Bug Eye says, low and calm in my ear, without preamble.
“You did?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from squeaking.
“Ketchup saw you on a fancy bike heading toward Old Town.”
I bang my fist on my leg. “I . . . All part of the plan. I had to go get a new adapter from Boyboy.” I tell myself to calm down, make my voice sound right. You didn’t do anything wrong, Tina. “He told me we didn’t get everything off Greyhill’s hard drive. I need to go back in tonight to finish the job.” I hesitate. “Can you drive him up to do the tech stuff?”
I wait for an answer that doesn’t come.
“I’m sorry, Bug Eye, I couldn’t get away from Michael until now to tell you what was going on.”
Bug Eye is quiet. It’s a game of chicken; he’s trying to make sure I’m being straight with him. “Fine. I’ll drive him,” he finally says.
“Thank you. Um. And no Ketchup.”
“Why?” Bug Eye asks, suspicious.
“Because you know how he is with Boyboy. Ketchup says stuff that makes him twitchy. We don’t need our IT guy twitchy.”
Bug Eye sighs. “All right. But this time you get in and get this done. No screw-ups.”
“No screw-ups.” I count the seconds while I wait for him to respond.
“And no more running around without permission, right, Tiny Girl? Mdosi Omoko’s not a man used to being kept out of the loop. Get down to business. Get him what he wants.”
“I will.”
“Or, Tiny?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t come back.”
• • •
I push the borrowed green shirt under the guest-room bed with my other clothes and find something else to wear. When I’m cleaned up, I wander listlessly back downstairs, but I can still hear Michael’s mother letting him have it in the living room. I go outside and dangle my feet in the pool.
From here, on the Greyhills’ patio with a distant view of the city and the ocean, you can’t see the staff cottages. They’re hidden by thevetia and plumeria trees. But I know our old home is there, at the end of the compound. I want to go down and look at it, but other people live there now, new servants. I can picture the narrow bed I shared with Kiki, our sagging love seat under the gaze of a tiny framed picture of Saint Catherine, the packed dirt out back where Mama and the other maids would cook and hang our laundry. I wonder if the “house” I made under the bougainvillea vines for Kiki and me to play in is still there. Maybe her rag doll, the one Kiki cried over, the one I wouldn’t go back for when we left, is still rotting under the leaves.
Kiki was born in our little cottage. Other than the convent school, it’s the only home she’s known. If it was odd that none of the other servants were allowed to bring their children, leaving them instead with relatives back in villages or down in Sangui, no one said anything about it to me. It didn’t occur to me to ask until there was no one around to ask.
I wonder what Mrs. Greyhill had to say when it became obvious that Mama was going to have another baby, just as fatherless as me. I wonder if she had already started to notice the way her husband looked at my mother. I wonder what she thought when Kiki emerged, scrubbed pink, and if Mrs. G had pulled out her own daughter’s baby photos and stared at them, comparing, trying to convince herself that her husband could not possibly be that stupid, or that cruel.
I wonder about a lot of things.
• • •
Mrs. Greyhill finally lets Michael go because she and Mr. G have to leave for a dinner party. Michael doesn’t tell me what she’s said to him, and I don’t ask.
After they’re gone, we retreat upstairs but have to keep the door to Michael’s room open. Maids have been tasked with checking in on us, and they pass by too frequently to allow talk about “the case,” as Michael continues to call it. We try to get by whispering, but eventually it becomes so frustrating that I decide to call it a night.
I leave Michael still poring over the UN and police files, carefully adding to his notes. I’ve told him most of what Donatien told me—mainly focusing on the fact that he’s convince
d Mr. G did it. I leave out the part about Donatien warning me away from Michael.
In my room I send Boyboy a text to call me when he and Bug Eye are on their way and flop down on the bed. I pull the photo of my mother out of my pocket and stare at her face until it starts to lose shape. Her smile becomes too wide, her braids too twisty. In the background the flower vines grow thorns and start to flex and curl and slip around the girls’ arms like snakes crushing prey. The other girl whispers in Mama’s ear and they laugh. Tina, Mama says, come here.
I try to tell her that I can’t, but my mouth is sewn shut like Donatien’s scar. I want to reach for her, but my arms and legs are held tight by the vines.
Tina!
She starts to laugh, and then she throws back her head so that her mouth is a chasm, and then she begins to scream.
I come to my senses with a jolt. For a second I flounder in the dark. I hear the scream again, except it’s not a scream, it’s just my phone buzzing. I fumble until I find it, my arm all pins and needles. “Boyboy?”
“Finally.”
“What time is it?”
“Midnight! I’ve been trying to call for half an hour. You too busy with Prince Charming?”
“Mavi! I fell asleep.”
“Great. It’s so nice to hear you’re taking this seriously. Are you awake now? Ready to go back in?”
I flip on a light and blink into it. “Yeah,” I mutter, still seeing the afterimages of my dream before my eyes. I shiver. “Give me a sec. Where’s Bug Eye?”
“Driving. Pissed you didn’t answer.”
I slap my cheeks lightly, trying to wake up. “Can you hack into the security cameras and make sure everyone is tucked into bed?”
“Already on it.”
I hear Boyboy’s fingers tapping over the line. While I’m waiting, I find dark clothes in Jenny’s closet to change into. “Well?”
“Anyone ever told you patience is a virtue?”
“Only my mother, about a million times,” I say, adjusting the phone as I pull a top over my head.
City of Saints & Thieves Page 13
