Silent Echo (14 page)

He shrugs. “I know they make you laugh.”

The hour is late now but time doesn’t matter, not anymore. Numi guides me to a kitchen bar stool, sits me down, and then sets to work on the cheesecake. He opens the box, peels away the plastic wrapper, and finds two plates and two forks and a knife. I watch my friend meticulously slice two wedges. He uses the knife and fork to balance each wedge onto the plates.

He sets my slice before me and waits. He is wondering, I know, whether I need to be fed or not. I might be weak, and my mind might not entirely be here, but I sure as hell can still feed myself. I do so, digging my fork into the delicious but toxic dessert. Toxic, at least, to me.

Numi says, “You think by eating this cheesecake you will get closer to solving the case.”

“Yes.”

“Any closer, cowboy?”

“No. Give it time, or another bite.”

Numi shakes his head. “You sure this isn’t a ruse to break your diet?”

“I’m sure,” I say. I think of the image of the boy with a similar cake shoved in his mouth and my stomach turns. I set the fork aside.

Numi holds up his fork. “Where I come from we call this a pie.”

“They have cheesecake in Nigeria?”

“No, but we have pies. This looks like a pie. It’s shaped like a pie, got crust like a pie. Definitely not a cake. I think you Americans are confused. Then again, what’s new?”

I’m about to grin and I’m about to take another bite when I pause, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth.

“What’s wrong, cowboy?” says Numi. He sets down his own fork.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just thinking.”

“Your thinking nearly gave me a heart attack, boss.”

But I’m not listening to Numi. His earlier statement has triggered something within me, awakened something within me. Or, more accurately, my subconscious is letting me know that there’s something here.

An answer.

Numi is about to open his mouth to say something but then closes it again. He has seen this look on my face before and he gives me my space and waits. I’m thankful for that.

I set the fork down with the bite of cheesecake on it. Or, as Numi had called it, pie.

Pie. I stand abruptly, pushing away from the counter. The stool almost tips over but Numi reaches out and catches it. He says nothing and watches me pace the small kitchen with renewed energy. At least, enough energy to keep me on my feet, keep me standing. Numi watches me closely. Still, he says nothing.

I pace, thinking hard.

Numi’s words hit home, and every time I think of the word “pie,” I get that wonderfully euphoric feeling, that feeling that tells me I’m close to an answer.

I pace. Numi watches me.

I look at the cheesecake, the crust.

Now I’m moving back into the living room, stumbling, my brain working a helluva lot faster than my legs can respond.

“Easy, cowboy,” Numi says. “What’s got you so worked up?”

“Help me over to the easels.”

He does so, grabbing me under the elbow, steering me over to the big chair again, easing me down. Of all the clues, it’s the one that’s etched into my brother’s chest that stands out the most.

“Numi,” I say, “what does the number ‘8’ mean to you?”

Numi sits on the arm of the chair. He smells of good cologne. He always smells of good cologne. Mostly, though, I think he relishes the fact that I have finally brought him into my last case and my thoughts. He knows the importance of my questions. He knows that I am close to an answer. He takes his time before answering. Although I am amped up from the sugar, I wait patiently for his response.

Finally, he says, “The number ‘8’ could mean anything, boss man, but if you turn it sideways, it’s the symbol for infinity.”

I am feeling a mix of excitement and frustration. There is something here and I am missing it. It’s here, it’s right in front of me, and Numi’s comment about the cheesecake is what set me off.

Pie.

What if the clue wasn’t a cherry cheesecake… but a pie? What if, like Numi, the killer had mixed up the desserts? What if he’d been wanting to convey the message of a pie and not a cheesecake?

A leap, I know. But say that to my rapidly beating heart. There is something to this. I try to get up again, but I used whatever energy reserves I’d had by pacing in the kitchen. I settle for sitting forward, my elbows on my knees. My brain, which has been so unfocused these days, is now firing on all cylinders. I feel like my old self.

Two words stood out to me: infinity and pie.

“Numi,” I say, “what do you know of
pi
? The mathematical symbol?”

Numi blinks once, twice, then his eyes narrow. He sees where I’m going with this. “It’s infinite,” he says.

“What else?” I ask.

“It’s composed of irregular numbers that never end, with no known pattern.”

“How the hell do you know this stuff?”

“You think we Nigerians are just a bunch of natives who run around in loincloths and wave spears?”

“No and never mind that right now,” I say. “Doesn’t
pi
have an infinite number of decimal places?”

Numi nods. “You are smarter than you look, cowboy.”

But I’m not paying attention to him. I look at the infinity symbol carved into the flesh of my brother’s corpse. I ask Numi to get me my iPad, which he does from my bedroom.

I swipe it on, do a Google search, and then click on the Wikipedia article. And what I see on the screen—two images in particular—gets my heart beating rapidly.

“You okay, cowboy?”

I ignore his question and continue studying the images without answering, lost in thought, lost in the implications. Finally, I hand him the iPad. “What do you see?”

He takes it and frowns. A moment later, he begins nodding. “The square and the circle,” he says.

I nod absently. “Squaring the circle” is a phrase that signifies the impossible. It is also a phrase that is associated with
pi
, as mathematicians for centuries, according to the Wikipedia article, have been trying to construct a square whose area is equal to the area of a given circle. All of this is Greek to me. I’m a private dick, for God’s sake. But I can read, and, according to the article,
pi
represents the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter—or 3.14. This means little to me other than that the number, called an irrational number, continues on into infinity. Thus, it’s impossible to square a circle.

I’m not a mathematician, but I am a detective, and I see the strategic way the pepperoni is placed over the carved square in Olivia’s hand.

“Squaring the circle,” I murmur over and over, like a mantra. I see that Numi sees, too.

I am sinking fast and although I wish like hell I could go on tonight, I cannot. I think I would kill for the energy to go on tonight. Numi would
argue me out of more espressos even if I asked. I know I need to rest except I can’t even find the energy to stand.

Silently, my friend slips his arms under me and lifts me out of the chair. That he doesn’t appear to be exerting too much effort should concern me more than it does. Except my mind isn’t here. It’s on
pi
. It’s on murder.

And it’s on the killer.

I do, of course, know who killed my brother, Olivia, and Angel. I know without a shadow of a doubt.

Numi carries me into my bedroom and lays me in my bed, where he covers me with a blanket. I am asleep even as he’s adjusting the pillow.

He smells of good cologne.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It is raining.

My dreams morph the pitter-patter of gentle drops into the sound of running feet. My brother, Matt, is running and panting. His panting might—
might
—be my own labored breathing. Either way, Matt is no longer smiling as he had been when I’d left him alone for less than five minutes. No, I hadn’t left him alone, I remind myself as I watch him run, watch him duck under branches, as I watch him trip and fall and skid on his shoulder and face. I had simply shifted my attention to the pretty girls.

That’s all it had taken.

Two pretty girls and now, I am brotherless. No wonder I’ve never had a real relationship. No wonder I’ve used women for sex all my life.

I’ve hated myself for so long.

In my dream, Matt scrambles to his feet, spitting out dirt. Leaves and mud and twigs adhere to his skin, his hair, his clothing. He ignores it all and continues running. From what, I can’t see.

No, there he is.

A shadow appears behind him, rising up as if from the earth itself. I can feel my own legs kicking in my sleep as I try to hurry Matt along, but the shadow is closing in, closing in.

Matt screams, and so do I. And that’s when I wake up, gasping and weeping. It is, of course, the same dream I’ve had, over and over.

Endlessly.

Except now the shadow is not faceless. It has a face, and I know him well.

I look up to find Numi sitting on the corner of my bed, watching me from the shadows, his eyes shining wet in the darkness. His hand is on my exposed foot, holding me. His hand is warm and comforting, and I feel his strength and energy as he wills me to health. Or so he thinks.

I fall back to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It is early morning.

The sky is lightening, even though the rain continues down, slapping against my bedroom’s sliding glass door. Somewhere out there, my brother’s grave is being rained on, too. Except he was buried deep in the ground, and I am here, in a warm room, covered in a blanket.

Numi is still at the end of the bed, still watching me, still keeping his silent vigil. His warm hand is still holding my foot. I move it away from him, rather rudely.

“You don’t have to be in here, Numi.”

Numi says nothing, although he looks exhausted and maybe a little hurt.

“But you’re going to be in here anyway, right?” I say.

“You got that right, cowboy.”

“Until I get better.”

He nods once. I can see bags under his eyes. His once immaculate clothing is now slightly disheveled. If he is hungry or tired or thirsty, he doesn’t say. He seems to exist for being there, for helping me, for comforting me. He is studying me closely.

Outside my bedroom window, a shadow flits by, followed by much chirping. More shadows, more chirping.

“You should sleep,” I say.

“Later,” he says. That he has neglected his own needs for mine is obvious. He asks for nothing, wants nothing. He’s just here for me. Love without condition, I think. I do not know where that phrase comes from, or why I think of it now.

The gratitude I feel for him suddenly overwhelms me, and I turn my head and look away. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t find the words. I try again.

“Numi…”

“Yeah, boss?”

But the words fail me. I look back at him and I see the tears in his eyes. I try to speak again, but I can’t find the words. Truth is, I don’t know what to say. I do not know how to express my gratitude. I have never received love before. Not for a long time. And never from a man. I do not know how to return it.

“It’s okay, boss,” he says and smiles at me sadly. I know he is waiting for something from me. Perhaps some acknowledgment. Perhaps a thank you.

No,
I think.
He’s waiting for something else.

But what he wants from me, I cannot give.

At least, not now. Perhaps never.