“That’s right,” she said. “You behave like an obstinate child, that’s how I treat you. Purloined,” she added. “I prefer purloined to stole.”
I pushed the plate away. “Ellie Cox died because of this man, Nana. So did her family. And another family here in DC. Don’t pretend this has nothing to do with us.”
“You mean you. And your job, Alex. That’s what this has to do with.” She poured a half cup of coffee and then headed for her room.
I called after her. “You know stealing someone’s passport is against the law?”
“So arrest me,” she said and slammed shut her door. Six in the morning and round one of the new day was already over.
We’d been building up to this ever since I first mentioned the possibility of my going to Africa. At first she’d been coy, with news articles cropping up around the house. I found a Time cover story, “The Deadly Delta,” snipped out and left with my laundry one night; a BBC news piece with the headline “Many Factions, No Peace for Nigeria” in an envelope next to my keys the next morning.
When I ignored them, she moved on to lecturing—with a list of what-ifs and potential risks, as if I hadn’t considered nearly every one of them myself. Muslims killing Christians in the north of Nigeria; Christians retaliating in Eastern Nigeria; students lynching a Christian teacher; mass graves found in Okija; police corruption and brutality; daily kidnappings in Port Harcourt.
It’s not that she was all wrong. These murder cases were already dangerous, and I hadn’t even given up the home-court advantage yet. The truth was, I didn’t know what to expect in Africa. All I knew was that if I had a chance to shut this butcher down, I was going to take it. The CIA contact there had signaled the murder suspect was in Lagos right now, or at least he had been a few days ago.
I’d pulled some strings to expedite my visa application. Then I had cashed in seventy-five thousand miles for a last-minute ticket to Lagos.
Now the only obstacle was my eighty-eight-year-old grandmother. Big obstacle. She stayed in her room until I left for work that morning, refusing to even talk about the purloined passport.
Obviously, I couldn’t get far without it.
Chapter 29
THAT NIGHT, I gave Nana Mama a little taste of her own medicine. I waited until late, after the kids had gone to bed. Then I found her in her favorite reading chair, huddled over a copy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves.
“What’s this?” She squinted at the manila folder in my hand as if it might bite her.
“More news articles. I want you to take a look at them. They tell a horrible story, Nana. Murder, fraud, rape, genocide.”
The article I’d given Nana included coverage of the gang’s DC murders. There were two long and well-written stories from the Post, one on each family, including pictures from happier times—like when they’d had their heads.
“Alex, I already told you. I know what’s going on there. I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”
“Neither do I.”
“You don’t have to solve every single case. Let it go for once in your life.”
“I wish I could.”
I put the folder flat on her lap, kissed the warm top of her head, and went up to bed. “Stubborn,” I muttered.
“Yes, you are. Very.”
Chapter 30
IN THE MORNING, I went downstairs around five thirty. I was surprised to see that Jannie and Ali were already up. Nana stood fiddling around at the stove with her back to me. She was cooking something cinnamony and irresistible.
I sensed a trap.
Jannie ferried glasses of orange juice from the counter to the table, where there were already silverware and cloth napkins for five.
&
nbsp; Ali was already sitting at his place, working on a big bowl of cereal and milk. He saluted me with a drippy spoon. “He’s here!”
Et tu, Ali.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” I said, loud enough for the whole room.