City of Saints & Thieves(38)

“I’ll be right here when you get back,” Mama said before the bus driver closed the door. She stood on the side of the road and watched us go. She was already in her maid’s uniform, ready for work. Her chin was up. She stood on solid ground. She waved good-bye.

? ? ?

“You can drop me off here,” I tell Michael.

We’ve come to the intersection of Dagoretti and Timau Roads, where a new shopping plaza called Paradise Island is going in. Cars and pedestrians bully and press around one another, everyone trying to get somewhere else. I’ve said barely a word since getting back on the bike, even though Michael has been pestering me the entire ride. I’ve just been running Donatien’s words through my head: Greyhill did it . . . If I’m sure of anything, it’s that.

But he doesn’t know, does he? Not for sure. And neither do I. Mr. G is in a dirty business. He and Mama were close. Maybe it’s like Michael said, and Mama heard something she shouldn’t have about one of his business partners. Maybe Mr. G even told her about one of them. What if she was going to tell Donatien information that would have incriminated someone else too? How could I find out who that might be? Did we look at all the surveillance footage from the day of her murder, who went in and out? Maybe someone else besides Gicanda and Abdirahman came there, someone Mr. G and Mwika didn’t mention to the police. I make a mental note to look at the footage in the police file again.

“Drop you off? Not part of the plan, Tina.”

I drag myself out of my thoughts. “Stop!”

We’re about five blocks from my roof, as close as I’m comfortable letting Michael get. He continues through the intersection.

“Pull over. I need to meet with my business partner.”

Michael slows and turns down a quieter street. He stops the bike on the dirt shoulder of the road in front of a well-groomed apartment complex and takes his helmet off. “Our deal was that I go with you. We’re supposed to be doing this investigation together.”

I pull my helmet off too. “Are you still mad about being sent from the table? Because I told you I’d explain everything later—”

“The deal is that we work together. You don’t get to run off.”

“I have to meet my partner; he’s waiting on me. It doesn’t have anything to do with ‘the investigation,’” I say, air quoting.

“I’m still coming with you.”

I try a different approach. “Don’t you want to get home? I thought you were grounded. And that you have to do homework or something.”

“I’m not going back without you.”

“I’m not taking you with me.”

“I’m not really asking.”

As we sit there glowering at each other, I weigh jumping off and running away. I could do it, easy, and just show back up at the Greyhills’ later. But then I risk Michael chasing me, and I’m seriously not in the mood. If I miss Boyboy, I’ll have to wait for another cryptic message to get a date with him, and we don’t have that kind of time.

But then I get an idea. “Fine,” I huff. “Go that way.”

I direct him through the streets, away from the bustle. We’ve left Old Town and are on the edge of what might one day become a suburb. For now it’s just street after street of unfinished gray apartment buildings. Some are covered in scaffolding, crawling with workers like ants, but most have stagnated somewhere in between, top floors gaping open with rebar and concrete. Their owners will come back every once in a while when the money is there and build another floor, polepole. Slowly, slowly. My building hasn’t been touched in years. It’s perfect.

“Down there,” I say. It’s the gated entrance to the building’s underground car park. I hop off and look down the street to make sure no one is around. The last thing I need is someone seeing a fancy motorcycle disappearing in here. I pull aside a sheet of metal on the rusted gate and Michael squeezes the bike through. I lead him into the dark center of the garage and tell him to park. The sudden silence after he shuts off the engine is almost deafening. I hurry us to a door signposted, HATARI! DANGER! and unlock the combination padlock keeping it closed.

There’s just enough light filtering into the garage to see, but inside the maintenance room it’s completely dark. I know my way by touch, but I hear Michael bang into a pile of scaffolding. I pick up the thing I need before reaching back and finding his arm, leading him by the wrist through the maze to the opposite side. I open the door and sunlight filters down on us, weak and dusty.

Michael follows me into the small concrete room and looks up. We’re actually in a long shaft where a service elevator was supposed to go.

“Okay,” I say, “here’s the deal: Since I’m feeling generous, I’m not going to make you hang out in the dark car park.”

“What are you . . .”

But he’s way too slow for me. I’ve already ratcheted one side of the handcuffs I picked up in the maintenance room to his wrist while we were walking. Now I swiftly attach the other side to a stout pole.

Michael’s eyes go wide. “You can’t do that!”

“I think I just did,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in ten minutes. I’m not going to leave you here for hours and hours, like you left me.”

“Are these from the panic room? How did you . . . ?”