“I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”
“It is what it is,” she said. “You can waste time shooting up the chairwoman and her son with truth serum, but I doubt they knew what Zephyr had planned.”
“You think Zephyr bombed that law office?”
“I think he planned my attempted murder and called Peter in for the hit. Find out how that law office connects to the Wilsons, and you’ll have the evidence you’ll need to close that bombing case.”
Shaw studied her face. “What do you know?”
“Perhaps I was looking into Slack & Roberts as well, chief. G
et a warrant for their records. Pay special attention to the files from the raid on Club 137 six months ago. You’ll want to look into the bank records of the two blackcoats involved while you’re at it. Do it quickly, please. Simon Wilson-Craft and the others who were caught in that disgrace of a raid shouldn’t be forced to spend another day in slavery. Besides, I owe Ms. Wilson the return of at least one member of her family, don’t you think?”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you? You think the Wilsons had something to do with the bombing?”
“Something they said or did caused it. Of that, I’m absolutely certain,” she said, lying with the truth. “There won’t be any more bombings, chief. It was only a distraction.”
An hour later, Lila walked out of Shaw’s office after having made an official statement about Reaper for Shaw’s confidential files, files that only he and the prime minister had permission to access, files she couldn’t even hack into because Shaw didn’t keep them on the Bullstow network. She caught a taxi and gave the directions for the Randolph estate.
Halfway home, she had a change of heart. “Take me to Starfield Dry Cleaners.”
The grizzled old man in the front seat sucked his teeth, gave a heavy sigh, and did a sharp U-turn.
Lila settled into her seat as the taxi carried her toward East New Bristol, a block away from the mechanic shop.
She knew that she’d end up on Shippers Lane when she left that morning. She wasn’t actually due in the security office until the afternoon, and she’d brought along her hood and extra cab fare. She’d worn nothing with identifiable Randolph markings or colors as well.
She’d done it all for a reason.
She’d had a lot of time to think since the riot.
Lila disembarked from the taxi and walked to the mechanic’s shop, sliding the hood over her face as she rounded the corner.
Samantha spied Lila the minute she came into view. She poked the brim of her derby hat, lifting it slightly in greeting, and hopped out of her chair next to the dock door. “Hey, Hood.”
“Hey, Samantha.”
“I’ll take you up.”
Samantha must have had several cups of coffee during the night, for she bounced rather than walked. Dust coated the floors, and Lila wondered if Shirley and her team had made much progress on the trucks. All three frames still sat on cinder blocks in the middle of the garage. It looked as though they had not yet finished the sand blasting.
Tristan answered the door on the first knock, his t-shirt marred with a small splotch of green paint. “Is something wrong with—”
He stopped at the sight of Lila, the dark circles under his eyes almost like bruises on his pale face, his eye still ugly and black from Dixon’s fist. “Thanks, Samantha.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, not budging.
“Goodbye, Samantha. Go check on Maria.”
“Great. You’re pawning me off on babysitting duty. Hood, keep him from sandpaper, hammers, and paintbrushes for five minutes, will you? He’s driving us all crazy.”
“Shut up, Samantha,” Tristan called out as she clomped downstairs. He bit his thumbnail and jerked his head toward his apartment. “Come in.”
Lila tugged off her hood and stepped inside the room. It looked as though a hurricane had hit the apartment, a hurricane of slaves who suffered from massive OCD. Everything in the room had been scrubbed and polished and repaired, and every wall had been prepped to paint. Even the knob-shaped hole behind the door had been fixed. She peeked back into the hall and noticed that the window had been fixed. The baseboards had also been repaired and scrubbed and painted green, one of Dixon’s favorite colors.
“It looks nice,” she said, tossing her hood and coat on the counter.
“Things have been a mess. I let them go too long.” He paced around the room and gestured to one of the couches.