Treachery in the Yard (10 page)

“We got some photos. We were on the other end of the street. Two cars are after them right now.”

Osamu gripped my right hand. I bent forward, leaning my ear close to his mouth. He whispered an address and said “Thompson.” After that, he had nothing left to say—forever.

Akpan removed his cap and wiped sweat off his face. “You hurt?”

“No. It's not my blood.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Thompson's address.” I gave it to him.

It took about ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive, which was about nine minutes too late.

“First, Mrs. Karibi. Then, Angus Sekibo. Now, Howell Osamu,” I said to Akpan. “Sorry about your investigation.”

“The Duncan family's obviously rattled. This was their handiwork, I'm guessing.”

I was certain that Puene had stopped Osamu from giving him out. I did not believe that the Duncan gang had killed Osamu, as Akpan suggested.

By now, a police cordon was going up. Akpan called Forensics and was waiting for Nnadozie and his boys to arrive. I didn't tell him where I was going. As I drove off, I hoped that he did not tell the surveillance team to follow me. As soon as I was out of sight, I accelerated toward Borikiri, the waterside area, where Thompson lived.

We nicknamed Waterside “New York”—it ran over with vice and crime, thieves and pickpockets, armed robbers and thugs. The street is their home. Ten-year-olds in Waterside will sell you any controlled substances you can think of.

I pulled up across the street from the address and just sat for
a while in my car, waiting. It was hardly wise to simply ask for him—the locals were suspicious of any strange face, and double for me, a police face. How they saw it I do not know for sure, but they did, and without looking twice. On the other hand, only sitting there was also generating suspicion, like sitting with a mask on my face saying “Cop looking for someone, go tell your friends.” I drank some water, resisting the urge to go inside the apartment house to look for him. It was about then that I saw the same young man in an odd trench coat and knit cap, just turning the corner and coming toward me. Thompson.

He checked out the area, not yet seeing me, and began walking toward his apartment block. I slid my pistol from its holster, taking the safety off. He walked about thirty feet to the front of my car and started across the street. I waited until his back was to me and then got out of the car, pistol leveled at him.

“Hey. Thompson.” He slowed but did not break his stride, as he slowly looked over his shoulder at me. “Police.”

He stopped looking and started running.

My gun was useless—there were too many people around to risk a shot. I took off after him. But he was in better shape than I was. By the third block I was starting to pant. He jumped over a fence around a back alley. I followed, but not nearly as well, twisting my ankle. Concrete chips from the wall behind me hit my shoulder before I heard the gunshot. Fortunately, he tried only one round before turning, disappearing into the alley and, doubtless, out the other side within the next minute. People ran, screaming. Thompson was gone. I was left with no suspect and a stabbing pain in my ankle.

As I drove home, I thought about Okpara's personal aide, Stephen Wike. That was something I should be digging into. Wike had not acted quite right. He might be hiding something, and I
wanted to find out what he knew. Certainly there was the strong possibility that an insider had played a role in the Okpara bombing. I'd already ordered Femi to check on Wike's phone records over the past two weeks. I was almost certain Puene bought him over. After what Okon told me, if there had to be a turncoat in Okpara's staff, I had a feeling it was Stephen Wike.

The following morning, I pulled up close to Wike's home and watched comfortably from across the street. I sat in the car, waiting and chain-smoking during those five long hours as the hands of my watch crawled round to 11:00
A.M.
Stephen did not come out of the house in all that time. Had he spotted my car parked across from his home?

The five-hour wait had me so upset, I very nearly gave up on ever finding out what Stephen was up to.

Another hour later he finally emerged, in casual wear. He got in a car, and I followed him to the small Kumar Department Store. The store was owned and run by an Indian and his wife. The Kumars had pretty much anything you could think of: merchandise as tiny as toothpicks or as big as bicycles, all at the lowest prices in Port Harcourt. You had to wonder if the Kumars made any profit.
Most of the other stores, owned by local people, did not appear to appreciate the importance of low prices. They all wanted to grow rich overnight, so they charged more, had fewer customers, and never became rich, overnight or otherwise.

Wike walked in to the store. It was large enough for me to follow him, keeping out of his sight. Mrs. Kumar came over to greet me, sweetly cheerful as usual.

“Hello, detective. Fighting the good fight?”

“Always. How are you? How is Sunil?”

“Fine. He went out. And you?”

“Doing well.”

“You've not been coming to our store lately. Tell me that any shop is selling cheaper and we'll cut our prices, just for you.”

“I can't get a better price. It's just work. Too many murders. No time for shopping.”

“Good. I don't like cutting prices any more than I already have. Okay, so what do you want today?”

“I've got a list in my head. I'll just look around.”

Chitchat used up and over, she gave me her most charming smile and excused herself to attend to the next customer.

Keeping in between shelves, and with an eye on Wike, I picked up some odds and ends that I didn't actually need. Wike was not meeting anyone; he just appeared to be shopping. When it looked as if he was close to done, I took my basket to the salesclerk. I wanted to leave before him, to keep a better eye on him when he came out.

The salesgirl rang up everything in my basket. My bill was N1520. I paid and admired her smile as she placed everything into two brown paper bags. I should have been thinking of Freda, not her. I walked outside, unlocked my car, and put the paper
bags in the passenger seat, next to the bottles of water. My cell phone rang as I turned a little to see if Wike had come out yet. The call was from Freda. Was her network so extensive that someone had already told her about my eyeing the woman in the store?

“Hello, darling,” Freda said.

“Hi. I'm at work right now.”

I was trying to concentrate on the conversation and to think what to say next when I saw Thompson.

For about a minute, I froze. Seeing Thompson, I knew Wike was the inside man for Puene as I had suspected. I bet they set up rendezvous like this one often and Wike would pass information to Thompson to pass on to Puene, and back. Puene dared not contact Wike on the phone or otherwise. But what I didn't yet understand was what made Wike do it: betray Okpara.

“Are you with someone, Tammy? You sound distracted. Is she so pretty that you can't take your eyes off her?”

Thompson was across the street. He did not see me. I moved behind a street pole. “No, honey. Only you can have that effect on me. You know that, don't you?”

“Hmm.”

I switched the phone to my other ear. Wike had come out of the store. He was on the other side of the street, slowly walking toward a spot maybe fifty feet to my right, clutching nylon bags of junk food in both hands. Thompson was moving slowly.

“Tammy? Hello?”

“Sorry. Working. Watching someone.” The street was very crowded. I did not like this.

“Who?”

“Okpara's personal aide. I met him during the bombing. I
don't like the guy and I figure maybe he knows something about the bombing.”

“Should I hang up?”

“Not yet. Uh, no. I need to look like I'm doing something other than watching him.”

“Thanks. Glad I'm useful.”

“Sorry.” Still watching Wike. He was nearing a parked car, struggling with the weight of the bags while reaching for his car keys. Thompson, tall and gangly, was now walking purposefully toward him. And he took a .22 from his pocket.

I flipped the cell closed and pulled out my police special. “Police!”

Wike and Thompson both heard me. Wike looked at me, then started to turn to see what I was looking at. He never saw Thompson. In a moment, Thompson had put four rounds into Wike's chest. Two nylon bags of junk food fell to the street. Red appeared all over Wike's shirt. He fell back against his car.

People started to scream. Thompson was already running, into the crowd.

Thompson? Wike? No choice. I rushed to the victim, who was slowly slipping to the street. His shirt was very red now. I caught him, let him down gently. His eyes were glazing over. He never had a chance.

I flipped open my cell and speed-dialed. “This is Detective Peterside. Civilian down. Gunshot, multiple wounds. I need an ambulance at 56 Orominike, outside the Kumar Department Store.” It was already too late, Wike was as good as dead. I looked in the direction Thompson had run off, but there was no point in searching. He could have gone in any of a hundred directions, ducked into a hundred alleys or shops—assuming that he did not have a
car around the corner waiting to pick him up. I speed-dialed again and gave headquarters a heads-up on Mr. Out-on-Bail, then leaned against Stephen's car, looked down at his lifeless eyes, and pulled out a cigarette.

A police siren came closer, then several. Soon there were plenty of cars, all too late. Uniformed police officers began to secure the scene, putting up a rope to block off the growing crowd of onlookers. I flicked my cigarette and watched the ashes fall to the ground in the dead hot air.

My cell rang. I looked at the screen. Freda again.

“Honey?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you cut the line like that?”

“I have a situation.”

“I hope you are not the situation.”

“Not this time. All I did was stand there. I'll call you back. I'm sorry.”

“Okay, I . . .” Her voice trailed off, she could think of nothing to say; my tone was a closed door. “Bye. For now.”

“Sure.”

The forensics van carrying Nnadozie and his crew drove up, followed almost immediately by Captain Akpan. A dead Wike was a big deal. Femi was in Akpan's car. They walked over to me while Nnadozie and his forensics unit started unloading their equipment.

Akpan looked at me as I took a drag. He did not like smokers. “What happened?”

“I was shadowing Stephen Wike. He came out of the store over there. Thompson was waiting for him.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Thompson pulled out a .22 and emptied half a clip into him. He disappeared into the crowd.”

Akpan turned away and got out his own cell phone, made a call and started giving orders. When he was done, I said, “Thompson has to work for Puene. There's no reason for him to be running around killing Okpara's people on his own. Unless he has a very odd hobby.”

Akpan nodded.

Femi and I then drove back to headquarters in my car. I wrote up a statement, then went up to see Chief. Stella let me in right away. Chief was sitting behind his desk, on the phone. He finished his conversation quickly when I came in.

“Chief, I want to bring in Dr. Puene for questioning in the Okpara bombing and today's shooting of Okpara's assistant.”

He eyed me warily. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I think he's a key player here.”

“I don't have to tell you he's a powerful man.”

“Then why are you?”

“Am I supposed to laugh? Is there something here that amuses you? Mrs. Karibi is dead, Angus Sekibo is dead, Howell Osamu is dead, too; now Wike?” He leaned back. “You're on dangerous ground.”

But he did call Police Commissioner Ahmed Abdullah, to get
his okay to invite Dr. Puene into headquarters to answer some questions.

I went back to my office, got Femi, and we drove out to Dr. Puene's house. We found him in the same room as four days ago. An assistant remained hovering in the background.

“Good day, sir.”

His eyes had the same wariness Chief's had, but some of his earlier arrogance was gone. “Yes?”

I had plenty of ways to say it. “Doctor, we'd appreciate it if you came downtown with us for a while.”

“For what?”

“Just some questions.”

“What about? This does not have anything to do with Okpara . . . does it?”

“Sort of. Stephen Wike was shot to death about an hour and a half ago.”

“Which station did you say you're from again?”

“State Police Headquarters. Homicide.”

He picked up his phone and punched in a number. If I was lucky, he was calling his lawyer. I smiled. I didn't think so. Osamu was dead.

“This is Dr. Puene. Yes. Good afternoon, Isaac.”

Femi and I exchanged looks. He was calling Chief.

“Some of your detectives are here. Yes. Yes. They want me to come in for some questions.” Pause. “I see. Yes, of course.” He hung up. Smiling. He turned to his aide. “I'm going down to police headquarters with the detectives here. I'll be back soon.”

“Are you sure about this, Doctor?” the assistant asked.

“It will be fine. I'll be back soon. Just postpone my appointments.”

The ride back to headquarters took about fifteen minutes.
The good doctor did not ride with us, of course. He was driven in his Toyota Limited SUV. When we got to the station he acted more like a visitor than a suspect, and everyone but myself and Femi treated him that way. As we came in, one of Chief's assistants met us—he'd been waiting patiently—and took Dr. Puene, Femi, and me straight to a conference room. He told us to wait for the police commissioner, the area commander, my captain, and Chief himself.

I was starting to get a good idea of why Dr. Puene was smiling. Not that I had not already guessed. I told Femi to go back to our office. If I was going to shoot myself in the foot there was no point dragging him down with me.