Invasive Species by Joseph Wallace Page A

worth talking to. They were always looking to dump you in some secret prison and forget about you. Nor did embassy men open up when their mission was dangerous or high profile.
    But this kind of mind-numbing assignment? Babysitting a hospital waiting room? There was a chance.
    Eventually Embassy shifted a little in his seat and said, “Well. There’s been some rumblings from the families of the other people who died.” He paused. “We’re just making sure she gets on her way safely.”
    He licked his dry lips. His forehead gleamed with sweat. The lobby wasn’t air-conditioned, and it must have been hot inside that suit.
    Trey got to his feet. “I’m getting myself something to eat and drink,” he said. “Want anything?”
    â€œNot allowed to eat while I’m on duty,” Embassy said darkly.
    Trey waited.
    â€œCafeteria here is under renovation.”
    Trey smiled. “I’ll figure something out.”
    *   *   *
    FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, he was back from a market down the street, carrying Cokes, coffee, sandwiches, and a paper bag full of passion fruit. Keeping a chicken sandwich, coffee, and the passion fruit for himself, he handed the rest of it over.
    Embassy dug into a sandwich, then said through a mouthful, “Nice try. But I still can’t tell you anything.”
    Trey said, “’Course not.”
    The man took another bite, followed by a gulp of soda. His sunglasses were a little fogged up. “Real good,” he said.
    Trey said, “No one really believes that Sheila burned down her mother’s place, do they?”
    Embassy lowered his sandwich and looked across at Trey. “People who set fires go to jail,” he said.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œWe’re putting your friend on an airplane today and waving ’bye. Then everyone’s happy and I can go back to my place in Dar.”
    Trey said, “What killed Sheila’s mother?”
    It was worth a shot. But the sunglasses were as blank as blacked-out windows. Trey knew he wasn’t going to get any more.
    He stood. Embassy looked up at him and said, “She gets no visitors. Sandwiches won’t get you through the door.”
    â€œI know.” Trey hesitated. “She goes home today, you said.”
    Embassy nodded.
    â€œCan you tell me about what time?”
    Trey watched him think about it before saying, “The last flight back to Dar.”
    Trey said, “Thank you.”
    Looking down again at the remains of the food Trey had brought, Embassy added, “And the first flight tomorrow to Rome, and then New York.”
    At the door Trey turned and said, “You going to be here when I get back?”
    Embassy sighed. “Yeah.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œBut they won’t let you talk to her then, either.”
    *   *   *
    TREY CLIMBED INTO the taxi and handed over a passion fruit, which the driver accepted without comment. Getting a knife out of the glove compartment, he sliced off one end of the purple fruit’s tough skin. Then he handed the knife to Trey, who did the same with one of his own.
    The driver slurped up some of the seeds and pulpy fruit, then said, “Yes?”
    Trey said, “Ujiji. The house that burned.”
    The man shook his head. “Nothing left there.”
    Trey took a moment to eat some of his passion fruit, sour enough to make his eyes half close.
    â€œThe house,” he said. “Please.”
    The driver seemed to be considering whether to say no. But it was a quiet day, Trey had hired him for hours—and was paying well—so eventually he sighed, finished sucking out the innards of his fruit, engaged the gears, and pulled away from the curb.
    *   *   *
    THE FIRE HAD done a thorough job. Where the house had stood, all that remained was sodden rubble. Even the nearby trees had been scorched.
    But it didn’t really matter. Trey knew