It does all come to me, and I rub my face and try to sit up until I realize that I do not have the strength to sit up. I give up and fall back into the chair. Numi sets aside the cheesecake and comes over to me. He slips two strong hands under my armpits and lifts me to my feet. I am surprised at how easily he seems to do it. I am aware that I have lost weight, perhaps more than I realize.
“Sara Lee?” I say as he guides me into the kitchen.
“No one had cherry cheesecake, kemosabe.”
Knowing Numi the way I do, I suspect he looked everywhere for the damn cherry cheesecake, probably growing more and more frustrated as the night wore on. Except he would never show his frustration, not with me. Still, I see the concern crease his forehead. He didn’t like being away from me for so long.
“Besides,” he says, “how do we know the killer didn’t use Sara Lee cheesecake?”
“Good point,” I say.
We are standing in the kitchen. Some of us are more sure-footed than others. I’m swaying slowly. Without Numi’s hand on my lower back, I would have fallen a dozen times over.
“I’m worthless,” I say.
“No,” says Numi. “You just white. Not your fault.”
“Ha ha,” I say. “And what’s with all the racist jokes these days?”
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?”