I pushed the plate away. “Ellie Cox died because of this man, Nana. So did her family. And another family here in DC. Don't pretend this has nothing to do with us.”

“You mean you. And your job, Alex. That's what this has to do with.” She poured a half cup of coffee and then headed for her room.

I called after her. “You know stealing someone's passport against the law?”

“So arrest me,” she said and slammed shut her door. Six in the morning and round one of the new day was already over.

We'd been building up to this ever since I first mentioned the possibility of my going to Africa. At first she'd been coy, with news articles cropping up around the house. I found a Time cover story, “The Deadly Delta,” snipped out and left with my laundry one night; a BBC news piece with the headline “Many Factions, No Peace for Nigeria” in an envelope next to my keys the next morning.

When I ignored them, she moved on to lecturing-with a list of what-ifs and potential risks, as if I hadn't considered nearly every one of them myself. Muslims killing Christians in the north of Nigeria; Christians retaliating in Eastern Nigeria; students lynching a Christian teacher; mass graves found in Okija; police corruption and brutality; daily kidnappings in Port Harcourt.

It's not that she was all wrong. These murder cases were already dangerous, and I hadn't even given up the homecourt advantage yet. The truth was, I didn't know what to to expect in Africa. All I knew was that if I had a chance to shut this butcher down, I was going to take it. The CIA contact there had signaled the murder suspect was in Lagos right now, or at least he had been a few days ago.

I'd pulled some strings to expedite my visa application.

Then I had cashed in seventy-five thousand miles for a last-minute ticket to Lagos.

Now the only obstacle was my eighty-eight-year-old grandmother. Big obstacle. She stayed in her room until I left for work that morning, refusing to even talk about the purloined passport.

Obviously, I couldn't get far without it.

Chapter 29

THAT NIGHT, I gave Nana Mama a little taste of her own medicine. I waited until late, after the kids had gone to bed. Then I found her in her favorite reading chair, huddled over a copy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves.

“What's this?” She squinted at the manila folder in my hand as if it might bite her.

“More news articles. I want you to take a look at them. They tell a horrible story, Nana. Murder, fraud, rape, genocide.”

The article I'd given Nana included coverage of the gang's DC murders. There were two long and well-written stories from the Post, one on each family, including pictures from happier times-like when they'd had their heads.