“I haven’t said anything about you or anything else. You know I won’t.” Not a complete lie . . . “He had me locked up, but I played him. He let me out. He trusts me, sort of.”
“This is Greyhill’s kid, your little boyfriend from back in the day?”
“Um . . . yeah, my friend. I mean, it’s not like that anymore; he’s not—”
“Listen,” Bug Eye interrupts, “Boyboy isn’t sure we got everything off the hard drive.”
My stomach sinks. “I can get back in. He wants me to stay here and, you know, hang out for old times’ sake.”
There’s a long pause. “You still have the equipment you need?”
“He broke the USB thing, but I can get another one from Boyboy,” I say.
“Boyboy’s going to stay here with us until he figures out what we’ve got.”
Shonde. Boyboy made me promise I wouldn’t let him get sucked in this deep. He’s probably freaking out right now, having to stay at the warehouse with the Goondas alone. But I know the blame for screwing up the heist lies with me, in the Goondas’ eyes. I don’t have a lot of room to ask for favors. As long as Bug Eye is there, I tell myself, Ketchup will behave.
“Once Boyboy’s done, let him go home so he can get a new adapter for me,” I say, careful to keep my voice level so it doesn’t sound like I’m trying to boss Bug Eye around.
“Are you gonna have a problem getting back in the office if we need you to?” Bug Eye asks. “That Michael kid’s not going to be watching your ass?”
“I can do it. I won’t mess things up this time.”
There’s a pause where I can hear Bug Eye breathing. Gears are turning in his mind, working through everything, letting the plan reconfigure to his satisfaction. “Okay,” he finally says. “See that you don’t.”
TWELVE
After I get off the line with Bug Eye, I wait five minutes and then send Boyboy a text: 777. It’s our code for call now. I wait, tapping my foot. Michael’s going to start wondering where I am soon.
I get a text back: Paper covers rock.
“Come on, Boyboy, I need to talk to you,” I whisper. Paper covers rock is his code for Not safe/No can do. But given that he’s stuck at the warehouse with a bunch of thugs, I get it.
Boyboy: Scissors.
Good. He’ll meet in person (scissors = legs). That must mean that Bug Eye will let him walk. I want to talk to him alone.
Boyboy: Pick up four bananas from the corner shop.
This code is supposed to look kind of simple, like, if anyone sees it they’ll think maybe it means meet him at four o’clock at a particular shop. Really, I’m going to have to consult yesterday’s ferry schedule to find out exactly when to meet him. I already know where. It should be sometime tomorrow, and hopefully he’ll have good news by then. Maybe he’s just playing it safe, telling Bug Eye that he isn’t sure all the data transferred. I’m about to go to Michael’s room when I get one last text.
Boyboy: Glad ur okay.
I find Michael on the floor of his room, leaning against his bed, his laptop open in front of him. I close the door behind me and take in his room: the huge television; the gaming equipment; the posters of bands I’ve never heard of; photos of Michael on rugby teams.
I sit only as close to him as I have to in order to see what he’s looking at on his computer.
“So where is the video?”
He closes the lid. “You’re demanding, you know that?”
“Come on, Michael. At least tell me who has it.”
Michael studies me for a beat. His lashes would make any girl envious. I find an odd heat tickling the back of my neck. Seriously, Tina? You must have a touch of Stockholm syndrome to be noticing pretty boy’s eyes. I cross my arms over my chest. “So, who?”
Michael takes a deep breath. “David Mwika.”
My mouth falls open. “What? I thought he was dead! You know where he is?”
Mwika was Mr. Greyhill’s head of security, up until the night of my mother’s murder. After that night, gone. He gave his testimony to the police and hasn’t been seen since. Off the radar. Believe me, I’ve looked for him. Boyboy’s spent hours searching for some trace of him online. He vanished.
“Wait,” I say, frowning. “Mwika didn’t kill my mother. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve got the surveillance footage of him playing cards in the security booth all night. Look.” He opens his computer and starts to search.
“I’ve seen it,” I say, waving him off.
“You have? How?”
“It’s in her police file.”
“How do you have her police—”
I interrupt, “Why do you think Mwika has the footage?”
Michael’s gaze drops. “Because that’s what my dad said when I asked him about your mom’s murder. He said he didn’t do it, but that video showing who did is gone.”