“Why do I detect there’s more to this than Nasha’s hurt feelings?”
“Because everything she took when she first got here had to do with food or little things that she found and claimed. And all of it went straight into her backpack. Hiding forty boxes of nails—I’m not sure she could’ve carried them by herself. As many as Yaro found, they probably weighed as much as she did.”
“Weren’t they in boxes?”
“Yes. But they were all hidden inside a large burlap sack, which would make the load a bit heavy for a girl her size. And then there’s the bottle of pills.”
“I didn’t steal those,” Nasha said. “I found them.”
“What kind of pills?” Sam asked Wendy.
“Some morphine derivative. Amo . . . Avo . . . I don’t recall.”
A feeling of dread worked its way into Sam’s gut. Praying that he was wrong, he checked his mirror and pulled to the side of the road. “Wendy, I need to see that bottle. It’s important.”
“I’ll get it and call right back.”
The moment she disconnected, Sam looked over at Remi. “Call Lazlo.”
Nasha’s uncle leaned forward. “What’s this about Nasha taking things?”
“I only took things no one wanted.”
“Voice mail,” Remi said. She left a message for him to call immediately, then texted the same.
A minute later, Sam’s phone lit up with the video call. Wendy’s face filled the screen. “Here it is, Mr. Fargo.” She held the bottle in front of the camera, the black letters on the label clear and crisp.
Sam’s gut twisted at the sight and Remi caught her breath. “Apomorphine,” Sam said. “That’s not a pain pill. It’s an emetic to induce vomiting.” He shifted around in his seat. “Nasha, where’d you find them?”
She crossed her arms, tucking her chin to her chest, refusing to meet his gaze.
Her uncle placed his hand on her shoulder. “My sweet Nasha. If you know something, you need to tell them.”
She looked at Sam, then Remi, her eyes shimmering with tears. “I didn’t steal anything.”
“I know you didn’t,” Sam said.
Remi, her voice soft, asked, “Where did you find the pills?”
Tears streaked her cheeks as she looked at her uncle. “Do I have to tell?”
“If you know the answer,” he said.
Nasha brushed her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at Sam. “I found them on the floor in the office bathroom.”
That was the last thing Sam wanted to hear. “You’re sure this is the same bottle that you found?”
She glanced at the phone screen, where Wendy held the small container. “Yes.”
“Thank you, Nasha. You’ve been a big help.”
“A wing girl?”
“More than you know.”
Her uncle put his arm around her. “There, there. No need for tears.”
Sam put the car in gear and slid into traffic, calculating the driving time from the airport to Bulla Regia. “Try Lazlo again.”
As before, it went straight to voice mail.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
The persons we eat with are the ones to kill us.
– AFRICAN PROVERB –
The villa floor was flooded when Lazlo, Hank, and José arrived later that morning. “What . . . ?” Hank said, standing on the deck, looking down.
“Osmond,” José said.
Hank gave an exasperated sigh, kicking at the hose that Osmond had hooked up to the water tank and draped over the deck into the opening. “I told him to wet the floor, not drown it.” He pulled out the hose, seeing nothing but a dribble of water coming from the nozzle. “Glad LaBelle’s not here to see this,” he said, climbing down the ladder. “Looks like the entire tank ended up down there.”
Lazlo and José followed him to the first level. They leaned over the railing, seeing a couple of inches covering the floor below. “You have to admit,” Lazlo said, “it definitely brings out the colors of the tiles.”
“It does at that.” Hank turned on the lamp that was clipped to the rail, its long orange extension cord swinging below them.
Lazlo moved around the tool bucket and stepped over a coil of rope to get to the rail. José, however, didn’t see it, losing his footing momentarily. He stepped back, caught himself on the railing, bumping the lamp clamped to it. “Glad that didn’t go over,” he said, righting the lamp, then peering over the edge. “Hate to see what would happen if it hit the