Treachery in the Yard (12 page)

“Don't you think the weather is very hot today?”

“Tell me.”

I found a quiet, isolated place, pulled the car over, and killed the engine. There was a pause.

She finally asked, “How are you getting on with the case?”

I took out a cigarette. She did not want one. I lit it and blew the smoke out the window. I hated to cast a shadow over her happiness but I had to tell her anyway.

“I've been pulled off the investigation.”

She was surprised. I usually don't talk with her about problems at work—of course, mostly there hadn't been any serious problems at work. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“It's internal.” I was not sure how much to tell her. For that matter, I was not sure how much I knew myself.

“So what will happen now?”

“They're putting another detective in charge.”

“There is nothing you can do?”

“Good question.” I concentrated on my cigarette.

“Why would Chief take you off?” I said nothing. “Tammy, cut this and talk to me.”

“Chief said I was reckless. That I don't follow procedures. That's all I know right now. But it is not the whole story. Something much larger is going on.”

“Isn't Chief your friend? Can't you just talk to him?”

“Not anymore.” I looked at Freda. “It's smoke.”

“Smoke?”

“Politics.”

“But is it true you didn't follow procedures?”

“Well . . . well, yes.”

“Why wouldn't you follow the rules? Are you trying to wreck your career? What's wrong with you?”

“All that was wrong with me is that I was doing my job.”

“I don't understand you at all.”

“Me neither.”

I threw away what was left of my cigarette and started the car. “I'll drive you back.”

“And?”

“I don't know.”

She said nothing all the way back. At her office building, she got out of the car and went inside without looking back. I watched her get smaller in the rearview mirror as I sat inside my car for a while. Just sitting there thinking was frustrating.

I drove back to my office. I was sulky all afternoon.

The phone rang. I asked Femi to answer it and he picked up the receiver. “Homicide. Detective Adegbola.” He listened, then turned to me. “You in?” he mouthed.

I shook my head. “Sorry, he isn't.” After listening some more, he cupped the mouthpiece with his palm. “You want this one. It's the doctor.”

“Puene?”

Femi nodded.

“He wants me?”

“No one else.”

I sighed but nodded.

“Wait one moment, Doctor. I see him coming in.”

I picked up the phone after a moment. “Detective Peterside.” I was not surprised when the good doctor invited me to his home
to talk—privately—about something bothering him. Could I come right away?

Why not?

It did not take long to get to the doctor's place. Traffic was light. The same uniformed guard as before opened the gate. He was expecting me. He stepped aside to let me drive in and I parked in front of the main house. I ignored the usual people hanging around outside as I got out of my car. Before I could take a step, the doctor's assistant came out of the house: “He's waiting for you.”

I followed him inside, where my host was waiting. He stood as I walked in. The atmosphere was pleasant enough, considering two hours ago, I had rudely accused him of murder. He had changed into a more Nigerian outfit, a full-length dashiki in blue cotton fabric and pants that had matching embroidery in gray. He looked casual.

“Good day, Doctor.”

“And to yourself, detective. Please. Sit.”

I sat on an expensively padded settee, ready for whatever the doctor wished to dispense.

He wished to dispense an intoxicant. “Drink?” he asked as he walked to the bar.

“I don't drink on duty.”

“All the other officers who've visited have had something to drink.”

“Well, then, it's up to me to maintain our false image of being sober at work.”

“I'm impressed. I am, detective.”

“Thanks.”

“You are most welcome.”

He poured himself a drink, a small one, then moved toward
the window, sipping and looking down at the supplicants and hangers-on. He sighed. “Did you see all these people?” he said. “They don't care if I win or lose. All they care about is my money. Everybody wants my money.” He turned to face me. “Have you thought of running for political office?”

“No. We are not allowed to.”

“You are better off. Politics is such a dirty game in this country. It is a dirty game to begin with, but here you feel the mud. It gets between your fingers.”

“So why not get out of it? You're a doctor. You could be saving lives.”

He waved his hand, holding the glass, at imaginary foes. “Someone's got to stand up to all this. Is that not using some of your own words, detective?”

I leaned back. He could certainly be charming enough. “You said you want to talk about something that's bothering you?”

“Yes. I expect I shall have some sleepless nights over it.” What he said next sounded rehearsed. “Detective, someone wants me dead. I'm worried sick about my safety, now that the primaries have heated up.”

“I thought we were going to talk about Stephen Wike.”

“We are. I was shocked when I first heard. Now I've had time to think.”

“Why are you shocked? Did his murder not follow naturally?”

My question did not faze him in the slightest. He finished his drink. “You really think I did it?”

“At the very least, you know more than you are telling. You and Okpara are at each other's throats. Everybody thinks you ordered the bombing and this hit.”

“Do they? Why would I order the killing of Okpara's personal aide?”

Then, he said something I had not expected. “Five days ago, my mechanic checked my gearbox and axle oil before we were to drive to a meeting with elders and traditional rulers, and he found a bomb had been planted under my car. I called the police but it was kept very quiet. The bomb squad took care of it. Naturally, I suspected Okpara. Until someone tried to blow him up. Now I have no idea who to suspect.” His grim expression appeared real. “Detective, a third person wants both Okpara and myself dead.”

“And what did my colleagues say?”

“The colleagues who were around the table today? They say they are investigating. I don't believe them, and from your expression during the meeting, I do not think you believed or trusted them, either. You think they are not interested in investigating me. You are right, detective. They are not. But not because they are protecting me. There are many games being played out.” I was leaning forward now. Very good—this was not what I had expected at all. “So, detective, what should I do? Wait until someone succeeds in killing me?”

Was he playing me or was I playing him? “Perhaps you should do nothing. I need some time. Are you sure you can't talk to Olatunji?”

“I can ask him to have you investigate. I'm not sure he will. Detective, I'm next. Or perhaps Okpara, then me. I can't say.”

“Who else was there, when the bomb was found under your car?”

“My good friend and party member, Professor Nwikeki. He was accompanying me to the meeting. The meeting was cancelled after the bomb attempt, though, and changed to this Friday.”

“Can I speak to him about this?”

“By all means. In fact, I insist.”

I did not know whether to believe him or not. He studied me for a while. “You don't believe me. Do you?”

“I don't know quite what to believe.”

“Fair enough. Speak to Sergeant Obiwali of the Metropolitan Police Division. He will corroborate all I have told you.” He poured another drink, another small one.

I walked out of his house a lot less sure of myself than when I had walked in.

I drove over to the Metropolitan Police Division, which had jurisdiction of Rumuokoro. Sergeant Obiwali confirmed his information. He had taken the doctor's statement, showed it to me along with logs of the calls and a file on the bomb found under his car. If this was a lie, it came with backup. I was still suspicious—all this could be an elaborate charade to divert attention from the doctor. I needed someone not connected to him.

I drove to Professor Nwikeki's country home, not far away. He was a local politician, actively involved with the struggle for the Ogoni people, and he was chairman of the political Elders Forum. He was a good contact, someone I trusted. It only took him a few minutes to confirm what the doctor had told me. He thought Dr. Puene had nothing to do with either the Okpara bombing or the Wike murder. “I assure you Vincent is a good man. A very religious and respectable man.”

“But couldn't it all be a hoax?”

“Not from what I know.”

I left, drove back to headquarters slowly, trying to think it over.

Femi was not in our office when I got back. Before heading home, I decided to grab some food. I had eaten nothing since morning and I was almost famished.

I ran into Femi outside our building on my way to the
buka
.
He was looking downcast. I told him I could use some food. We walked into a nearby restaurant while I told him about my conversation with Dr. Puene. He said nothing. He just listened quietly. We took a table, me wondering what was up. He waited until I had ordered. “I have been reassigned.”

I nodded. “It's nonsense.” The waitress brought the first part of my order. I was hungrier than I'd realized. Femi watched me eat. I offered him some, but he shook his head.

“I've been meaning to ask you something,” he said.

“About what?”

“Do you think we have a leak?” he asked.

How did he expect me to respond?

“Never occurred to me,” I said, still regarding him closely, “Okay. What if there is one. Who could that be?”

He smiled grimly. “Hey. Nobody said anything about anybody being a leak.” He adroitly avoided answering my question. He looked at me closely, then said, “Forget that I asked.” He was on the edge but not yet ready to jump.

I finished, paid the waitress, and we left. As we walked back to headquarters and my car, he asked, finally, “Think you'll find out who's behind the killings?”

“I'm still convinced Puene's behind it all.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I don't know. Why do you want to know?”

He just stared at me, then shook his head. “Sometimes you are so full of crap. We've known each other a long time. I'm just curious, that's all. Good luck with your sarcastic self, lieutenant.”

I watched him walk back to headquarters and felt even more alone than before.

I got into my car, still watching Femi as he disappeared in the Yard. I sighed, picked up my cell phone, and called Freda.

“Hello, it's me,” I said when she picked up.

“Yes, I gathered.”

“I'm sorry about earlier on.”

“It's okay. I'm sorrier,” she said.

“You are.”

“Funny.”

“Someone is lovesick and not man enough to accept it.”

She laughed.

“What are you doing right now?” I asked.

“I'm in the kitchen, preparing dinner.”

“If it's okay, I'm going home, going to sleep, and not planning on getting up until tomorrow. Is that okay?”

“If that's what you want.”

“I'm afraid I would not be good company.”

“You're in my heart, Tammy.”

For some reason, I did not know what to say except good-bye. I did not deserve her. And I had no idea what to do about it.

Or what to do about the murders.

I drove home and rested for a while, lying on my back on the bed. Sleep came quickly but it was restless.

The next morning around ten o'clock, as I parked, Okoro came out of our building, looking his usual unhappy self.

“Hi,” he said. “We haven't seen Femi today. He didn't sign in this morning.”

“Did you call his number?”

He nodded. “He switched off.”

A few days ago I would have thought nothing of it. Now I started to worry about the worst. “Something could have happened to him,” I told him.

His eyes widened in surprise. Instead of asking anything, he hurried away, putting distance between us.

I decided to check on Femi at home. I went back to my car, unlocked it, got inside. I drove over to his house and walked up to his front door. It was open.

Open. I did not like that.

I stepped inside. The apartment was dark. It was hot and smelled musty. I groped the wall until I felt the light switch and flipped it. The not-so-lavishly decorated apartment that the light revealed was just what one would expect from a police officer's salary. Not a rich man's paradise in a well-to-do neighborhood.

I almost made it through the living room before I saw the foot sticking out from underneath a padded settee. A man's foot. Wearing a dark sock and a fairly good quality black shoe. I did not need to guess whose foot it was.

I slowly walked around the settee and came face-to-face with Femi—or at least, face-to-face with what was left of his face. A bullet hole between his eyes definitely spoiled his boyish good looks. I did not bother taking his pulse, but instead bent down, lifted up his jacket, and pulled out his wallet, then went through the rest of his pockets. Nothing I found told me who had killed him or why.

I went back to my car and used the police radio to call in a formal report. A police officer was down: now everything had to be by the book—with a civilian you might cut corners, but not with one of your own. Then, with the sight of yet another dead body lingering in my mind, I stood against my car and lit a cigarette, even though I had no one to annoy with the smoke. A police officer down—that was disturbing, very disturbing.