Treachery in the Yard (4 page)

I was not surprised to see Osamu at the headquarters. He was a frequent visitor, as his clients were of the criminal persuasion. I noticed a young man with him, wearing an odd-looking trench coat and a knit cap—odd because why would he wear such heavy clothes in the heat? He looked young enough to be a college student, not more than twenty-two. His lanky frame was delicate, his clothes
a bit more expensive than usual. There was a nasty scar on his right cheek. He appeared nervous, shifting from one foot to the next, avoiding eye contact with me as I looked over at him.

I wondered what the lawyer Osamu and his friend were doing here. Whom had he sprung this time?

Since I was not on greeting terms with him, I ignored him and his young friend. But I figured I would see Osamu again, sooner rather than later.

I walked up the steps and into the building. Some of the officers saluted when they saw me, some waved, few stopped. I chatted with a few friends as I walked through the lobby, then took the stairs up to the second floor, preparing myself to meet Chief. By the time I stopped at the steel-framed door, I was ready. The smile on my lips was quite suitable for a mid-ranked officer, I thought. I opened the door to Chief's office and entered without knocking.

Stella, Chief's secretary, looked up from her Imperial manual typewriter as I stepped into the carpeted office. Stella was a small, neat woman. She wore no makeup, combed her hair straight—nothing fancy. My guess was she had no boyfriend—her whole life seemed to be working for Chief. She kept her distance from the men in the block.

The air conditioners kept everything cool. The more important
the official, the better his air conditioners, the cooler his office. Chief of Police Isaac Olatunji was
very
important.

Stella excelled at pretending to welcome anyone who came through the door. “Good morning, Tammy.”

“You look exceptionally happy to see me this morning,” I said.

“With you, I pretend extra hard.”

“Thanks. Is Chief in?”

“Yes, but he's with someone. You have to wait, and don't bother with your usual attempts at being friendly.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, looking into her dark eyes. “When have I ever tried to be friendly?”

“Ha ha. Sit down and be quiet. I have work to do.”

“Yes, Stella. Say, how did you get that name, anyway?”

“My mother was once married to Marlon Brando. Now, sit and be quiet.”

I barely had time to sit in one of the comfortable chairs before Chief emerged from his office, escorting a well-dressed young man. Chief was in uniform, tall and imposing. The man wore an expensive suit and was new to me. He looked like a high-profile business executive. He was well fed, his nails manicured, his expensive shoes polished. Calluses covered his fingers but they were old ones—he had probably been a manual laborer, but at least ten years ago. Mr. Young-and-Well-Dressed seemed happy enough—he appeared to have been entertained rather than investigated. He looked like a gentleman. I liked gentlemen.

They shook hands at the door and Mr. Old Calluses left with a graceful yet purposeful walk—he was in no hurry to leave, but he was going somewhere. You could say he was none of my business, but obviously, you have never been a Homicide detective. My business is everyone. Over the past eleven years, I have always
found it pays to notice details, even when you are not on a case. Mostly I look for details involving murder victims, but it also pays to keep an eye on the currently living—it saves time later, after they are dead.

Chief was aware I was there but kept watching his visitor's back until he had left the office. Then Chief pretended to first notice me, waving me to follow him as he walked back through the open doorway of his office.

“Good morning, sir,” I said, closing the door behind me.

“Morning, Tammy. Femi told you I wanted to see you?”

“Yes, sir. It's a hot day.”

“Don't bother. I have no time for patter today.” He motioned for me to sit down, a privilege not given to most junior officers. We were chummy—to the chagrin of Captain Akpan. I am not a charmer on purpose, but Chief had always seen something in me he wanted to cultivate. I had yet to learn what he wanted to grow inside me. For now, being Olatunji's favorite made my life a lot easier. Akpan did not like the interference with the lines of authority, but he knew better than to question anything Chief wanted to do.

“I told you to have the report ready this morning.” Chief held his reading glasses up to the light, rubbed them gently with a cloth, and, when satisfied they were clean, put them on and began to read through a folder on his desk, apparently ignoring me. That was typical. He was no-nonsense. I had come to deeply respect him over the past decade of working for him. He had taken me under his wing with as much affection as he allowed himself to show anyone, which was not much. He hated wasting time, and enjoyed making the point to me by usually performing two or three tasks while talking with me. Today was not a bad day—he was only reading.

“I was going to finish it when I came to work this morning.”

A tiny smile on his lips, he did not look up but instead casually flipped a switch on his intercom. “Could you tell Staff Sergeant Okoro to come over?” he told Stella, then flipped the switch off and began signing papers. I waited, watching him, wondering who Mr. Old Calluses was and why Chief had seen him.

Chief of Police Isaac Olatunji had worked hard to be where he was. The man was probably one of his networking contacts. Chief was in his early fifties, tall, slender, with a long slim face. A Yoruba Moslem from the South-West, he did not indulge in smoking, drinking, or womanizing like some other officers.

“Sir, I saw you on TV yesterday on the national news. If I may butter you up, it was a fine speech. If someone had tried to kill Okpara it would be no surprise; it was one more example of the dark cave into which Nigerian politics has crawled.”

He looked up at me briefly, arched his eyebrow, then went back to reading and signing. “I don't need any of your blathering today, detective. If you really wanted to butter me up you would have gotten your report finished and on my desk this morning.” All while reading and signing. “I don't watch myself on television. Why were you watching it instead of working?”

His voice was hushed and serious. Chief had rung me up himself yesterday to say there had been a bomb explosion at Okpara's house, and he wanted me over there immediately. It was very rare that he would call me directly about a case.

At least he kept me working.

There was a knock on the door. Chief said “Come,” and Staff Sergeant Okoro entered. Chief tore himself from his paperwork for a moment. Okoro saluted, just as a good police officer should. I respected that good-police-officer approach. I respected Okoro. He
was like one of my uncles. An uncle who drank all your beer if you left him alone in your kitchen—but an uncle.

“At ease, sergeant,” Chief said. “Temporarily transfer the Team B surveillance van to Akpan.”

“But, sir—”

Chief raised his hand. “We have no choice. Get the van ready. He dropped by this morning to say his team needs the other surveillance van. Theirs is in the workshop again.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted again, quite neatly. As he turned sharply on his heel, he shot me a despairing look. For his benefit—actually, he has to do what Chief tells him—I shrugged my shoulders at him:
What can you do?
Team B was his team but Akpan had the rank.

After Okoro left, Chief said, “The report on my desk, detective, by noon. You can go.”

I said, “Thank you, sir,” and got up.

“Tammy, call Stella in here on your way out.”

“Was her father really Marlon Brando?”

“No, it was that Tennessee Williams fellow. You can leave now, detective. I have important things to do.” He was back to the papers on his desk.

I excused myself, saluted as best I could, and left his office. Stella nodded at me as I walked by, busy at her typewriter. I told her Chief wanted her in his office and she scurried inside. I went down to my car and drove to the older block across the Yard.

When I walked into my office, I saw my partner, Femi, deep in files, almost like a younger version of Chief. He had opened the only window for relief, but the steamy air was no improvement. My office was small. No new paint on the wall, no new furniture. The floor was rarely cleaned, the windows never. Many seasons
had passed since I became a detective, and my office remained as grungy as it had been when I walked in the door for the very first time.

“Good morning, lieutenant,” Femi said as I squeezed past him. “Here is the final report on the bombing.”

Didn't know Femi would have the report ready. Wasn't about to face Chief with the report.

I sat and opened the file but found it difficult to concentrate. I knew the details already, but the file had to be checked for accuracy. I had lost interest before I finished page ten and gave up totally at thirteen. The file in my hands, I pushed my chair back as much as I could in the space available, stretching my legs. I looked over at Femi. He ignored me, having his own work to get through.

I looked at the file but thought about Freda. I'm not a bad guy. My dog loves me—well, it would if I had one. Freda. She deserved much more than I was giving. It was a lot to live up to, and I did not know if I had it in me to give more. My work took plenty.

It did not make sense. Freda appeared to be everything I wanted in a woman. It was luck that she was not just my lover, but my friend; luck that she wanted me. Good luck for me. Whether it was also good luck for her wasn't for me to say, but I knew the answer, and I was not proud of it. I knew I had to make a decision, and that if it was to stay with Freda and meet her needs, I would have to push myself. I was used to pushing myself for work, but not for anything else.

I was attracted to her the first time I saw her, at a friend's birthday party. I couldn't help but stare. It was a combination of her stunning physical presence and her attitude. She had modellike long slim arms and legs. Her fine, short, straight sable hair accentuated her huge hazel eyes. Fair complexioned, she'd narrowly escaped being an albino, but I bet neither of her parents is. She was
elegant in a black flowing dress that bared her lovely shoulders. My mind told me not to stare but my eyes would not obey.

She was chatting with our host, Modestus, and two other men. He was married, and his wife, nearby, kept an eye on them. I wondered which one of the two men had come with Freda, or whether either had, and whether I could arrest both to get them out of the picture. It never occurred to me she had not arrived with a man—at least, not until pondering it just now.

I knew I could use Modestus for an introduction to this fabulous mystery woman, especially with his wife watching. As I approached, the woman turned my way and our eyes met. I smiled, raised my glass of wine to her, and mouthed “Cheers.” She ignored me. That was a good sign. She had taste, ignoring me. The two men walked off so I made my move before any other men got ideas.

At first I ignored her and greeted Modestus. “Happy birthday, old boy,” I said as I shook hands with him.

“Thanks buddy.”

That was as long as I could ignore her. “And who's this?”

“Tammy, meet Freda Agboke. She works with the Mercury Insurance Company here in Port Harcourt.”

She held out a well-manicured delicate hand. A pianist's long fingers. Slim wrists.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. Her hand felt warm; touching it was like walking into your home.

“Freda, meet a very good friend of mine, Tamunoemi Peterside. We all call him Tammy. He's a police detective attached to Homicide. You can get along with him when he's not carrying handcuffs,” he said, punching my side playfully. “Or maybe especially when he's carrying handcuffs.” That was Modestus—always subtle.

“My pleasure, Mr. Peterside.” Very cool. She had heard it all
before. I might as well have given up and gone home if I was going to just feed her lines.

“Detective Peterside,” I corrected.

“Detective.”
She smiled sweetly, but it was not sugar I was used to. “Why are you a detective?”

I had no ready answer. My mother never understood why and my father had hated the idea. I did not even take bribes, so a lot of my uncles asked why I would be a police officer in Port Harcourt if I wouldn't profit from it. “I'm no good at conversation. So I work with dead people. I don't have to talk much with them.”

Her smile changed, warming.

Modestus looked at Freda, at me, and begged his leave. Neither of us noticed.

“Are you married, Tammy?”

Well, that was direct. “No. My mother wants me to be.”

“Why?”

“She thinks I'm lonely.”

“Are you?”

“Not right now.”

“And do you want to be married?”

“No.”

Her smile grew a little warmer. “And why not?”

“In my work, I too often see the results of love. There's usually a blunt instrument involved, and a fair bit of blood.”

“Maybe I should help you overcome your cynicism.”

“Maybe you should.”

That was exactly twelve months ago. We had gone out steadily since then. With romance, time flies—like flies on a corpse. Okay, I have not completely lost my cynicism, and I am uncomfortable. After a year, Freda wants, and should expect, a commitment.

I sat back in my office,
thinking about meeting her a year ago, thinking about where we were today: the same place. I yawned and looked up at the wall clock. Three long hours to lunch.

The commitment thing was not going very well for me.

I sighed and picked up the file again.

It was already steamy and hot in my office when I finished reviewing Femi's report on the bombing, beads of sweat glistening on my neck. Femi was worse: the back of his white long-sleeved shirt was soaked, clinging to him. Apparently engrossed in his work, he pretended not to notice me looking at him. We both had work to finish before it got too hot to concentrate.