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fabric.
    “We understand that you provide bread for the hotel?” Kahembe said.
    She nodded. “Since they reopened several years ago.”
    “And how is your bread delivered?”
    “Two brothers, Joseph and Samuel, have done our deliveries for a while.”
    “Are they here now?”
    “No. They have not come to work for several days.”
    Kahembe and I looked at one another, each coming to the same conclusion. Mrs. Asha connected the dots at that moment as well.
    “Oh, no.”
    “How well do you know these boys?” I asked.
    Mrs. Asha was silent, stunned by the thought that they would be involved. Her daughter, Kamaria, replied for her.
    “We have known them since they were very young. They worked for us to learn about the business. Joseph wanted to have a bakery of his own someday, and we were happy to teach him.”
    “Do you help them load their truck each morning?”
    “No, they begin their deliveries well before the sun rises. We bake through the evening, and they use a key to pick up the bread for delivery very early each day.”
    “I would like to speak to them,” said Kahembe, “if you could tell me where they live.”
    “Of course,” said Kamaria.
    As she was describing where they lived to the Lieutenant, there was a shout from the back room.
    “A phone! There is a phone hidden in the flour!”
    As a group, we went behind the counter to see what had been found. Naseeb looked agitated, and stood pointing at four neat stacks of flour. In between two of the stacks, a mobile phone was wedged.
    I leaned in for a look. It was a simple feature phone, easily found virtually anywhere in the world. It looked to have been hastily tossed behind the sacks of flour, but had become stuck on its way down.
    “What is that doing there?” asked Mrs. Asha.
    I noticed Kahembe look at Naseeb before replying to Mrs. Asha. “Is this your phone?”
    “No, mine is right here.” She withdrew a bright blue phone from her apron pocket. Her daughter did the same.
    “This could be the phone used to detonate the bomb!” exclaimed Naseeb.
    “Let us not jump to conclusions, Mr. Aman,” Kahembe said firmly to Naseeb. “And please, return to the car as I asked previously.”
    “But...”
    “We will handle this,” Kahembe said. I noticed him step into Naseeb as he spoke, effectively ending the discussion.
    Turning to Mrs. Asha, Kahembe said, “I would like to take this phone as evidence in case it is related to the attack.” He looked around the room and, finding a plastic bag, used it to withdraw the phone. “We will be in touch, Mrs. Asha, thank you for your time.”

    R eturning to the cars , we could see Naseeb fidgeting next to his Land Cruiser. “Have you arrested them?” he asked.
    “No, Mr. Aman,” replied Kahembe.
    “But you have it? The phone!”
    Sterba turned to me and raised his eyebrows. He too was wondering why Naseeb was so fired up. Frankly, we had enough to think about after visiting the bakery, and we did not need Naseeb’s excitement. I wanted to diffuse this, and said, “Naseeb, what you found was a phone. It could be a great lead, or it could just be an old phone. We don’t know yet, mate. How about you take a break while we go back to the police station with the Lieutenant? We will call you when we’re ready to leave,”
    Naseeb looked at Sterba, and then turned back to me. “Very well, Mister Chase. I will be ready when you need me.”
    I shook his hand. He looked at the bakery one more time before getting into his Land Cruiser and leaving.
    Standing in the cloud of dust left behind, Sterba said, “We’re not going to the police station, are we?”
    “Nope,” I said.
    “We’re going to the delivery boys’ home,” said Kahembe.

    J oseph and Samuel lived together on the edge of town not far from the bakery in a tiny cinderblock rectangle that had surely seen better days. When we arrived, a police car was waiting. Kahembe signaled for us to wait while he handed over the phone found at the