Cross Country

ward for a year after that. When he came out, the old family fortune was gone.”
    “What happened to it?”
    Flaherty shrugged, and a little smoke from his cigarette got into his eye. He squinted and rubbed at it.
    “Sowande was supposed to get transferred to state care, but somewhere between hospital and orphanage, he disappeared. He was a bright boy apparently. High IQ anyway. He spent two years at university in England. Then he disappeared until a few years ago here. That’s it, all I have. No further record of any kind until now. We think he might have worked as a mercenary.”
    I stared at the picture in my hand. Could this
boy
be the
man
I’d seen in Darfur? The killer of so many people here and in Washington? Ellie’s murderer?
    “How do we even know it’s him?” I asked.
    “The dead guy in Sudan — Mohammed Shol? We got a source says he was bragging about doing business with ‘the Tiger,’ supposedly knew a thing or two about him. It seemed like a long shot, but then someone dug up this record and we got a print match to the crime scene at Shol’s. Sweet, right?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, holding up the folder. “I mean, really, what am I supposed to do with this? Seems a little convenient all of a sudden.”
    Flaherty glared over at me and swerved out of his lane. “Jesus, Cross, how much help do you want here?”
    “Help?” I said. I wanted to hit him. “You hang me out to dry, then show up and give me the name of someone who doesn’t seem to exist anymore? Possibly a mercenary, but who knows? Is that the kind of help you mean?”
    “This is gravy, Detective. I told you not to count on me from day one.”
    “No, you told me that on day four —
after
I spent three nights in jail.”

Chapter 100
    FLAHERTY ANGRILY FLICKED his lit butt out the window and wiped the sweat off his face. “Do you even know why you’re not dead yet? It’s because everyone thinks you’re CIA, and we let them think it. We’ve been babysitting you. I’ve been babysitting you. Don’t bother to thank me.”
    I clenched my hands several times, trying to cap my anger. It wasn’t just Flaherty’s arrogance getting to me, or his condescension. It was this entire case. The Tiger was worse than any of the serial killers I had ever arrested — so why was he allowed to roam free here?
    I looked over at Flaherty. “What is it you do, exactly — for the agency?”
    “I service the copiers at the embassy,” he said, deadpan.
    Then he lit another cigarette and blew out smoke. “Actually, I’m on record here as CIA. Okay by you?”
    “Fair enough. How about this, then? Why aren’t you on the Tiger’s case yourself? Why pass me information instead of running with it? Abidemi Sowande is a murderer. You know that.”
    Something about the debate, just getting it out in the open, I guess, was diffusing the tension in the car. Plus, I was on a roll.
    “For that matter, why in God’s name am I wearing this stupid tie?”
    For the first time, Flaherty smiled.
    “Ah,” he said. “That’s one I can answer.”

Chapter 101
    AN HOUR LATER, I was in the waiting room at an executive suite on the thirtieth floor of Unilight International’s administrative offices in Ikeja. I knew that Unilight was one of the most successful packaged goods company in the world, but that was about it.
    Glossy pictures of Lubra Soap and Oral Toothpaste hung on the walls, and I was trying to figure out exactly what I was doing here. Flaherty had dropped me out front with a business card and a floor number. “Willem de Bues wants to meet you, and you want to meet him.”
    “Dr. Cross?” A receptionist called over to where I was sitting. “The director will see you now.”
    I was shown down a hallway to a double door, which she opened for me, into a huge corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows.
    Stranger and stranger.
What did a successful multinational corporation have to do with a murder case?
    A massive desk sat at an angle to the door with two comfortable chairs opposite it. A pair of tufted leather couches took up another corner, where two men in dark suits, white shirts, and clubby ties were just standing up.
    “Dr. Cross,” the taller of them said. A white man with close-cropped blond hair and heavy-framed rectangular glasses came over and shook my hand.
    “I’m Willem de Bues.” His accent was Dutch — I think. He motioned to the other man. “This is Thomas Lassiter, an attorney with our legal