Eddie Zondi knew the exact weight of a lie. Four hundred grams, wrapped in brown paper, sweating against his palm. He’d been a cop long enough to feel the difference between a street hustle and a conspiracy. This one hummed with the latter.
His captain, a man named van der Merwe who smiled too often and laughed too loud, had asked Eddie to lunch two days ago. “You’re burning out, Zondi. Take leave. Visit your sister in Durban.” A friendly suggestion. A threat in a nice suit. eddie zondi
Eddie sat in his unmarked Golf, watching rain streak across the windshield. The informant, a jittery man called Skroef, had promised to deliver the original ledger by midnight. It was now 3:47. Eddie’s phone buzzed. A photo. Skroef’s ID pinned to a corkboard with a steak knife. Eddie Zondi knew the exact weight of a lie
She opened the door in a bathrobe, eyes sharp. “Eddie. You look like a man being followed by his own shadow.” This one hummed with the latter
Eddie started the engine. He didn’t drive toward the station. He drove toward the only person in Johannesburg who still answered his calls without asking why—a journalist named Khanyi who had once written a profile on him titled The Last Honest Cop . She didn’t know that title made him want to throw up. Honest was just another word for slow to take a bribe.
At a red light, a white Toyota Hilux pulled up beside him. Two men inside. Sunglasses at 4 a.m. Eddie’s hand moved to his hip. The light turned green. The Hilux didn’t move. Neither did Eddie.
Eddie touched the butt of his service weapon. “I’m going to go have a word with the man who bought my captain a new pool last Christmas.”