by Mario Bolduc
Late in the afternoon Roselyn left her car in the hotel parking lot and grabbed a cab up Esplanade Avenue, getting out on North Broad Street. Several houses and buildings had boarded-up windows, giving this poor, entirely black neighbourhood a doleful air. She was a bit worried as she headed toward Pontchartrain Auto Repair, a garage surrounded by a high metal fence, and hesitated at the entrance. All around, cars were in various states of dismemberment.
Roselyn was about to turn around when a corpulent man in overalls came out of the office, asking her what she wanted.
“I’m looking for my husband.”
That was the first thing that had come to her.
Why? The words had popped out of her without her thinking about it.
The man looked her over. “He came here?”
“Maybe. Can we talk? Do you have five minutes?”
She followed the mechanic to the far end of the garage, trying to avoid dirtying her shoes. There was a small office there, covered in faded pin-ups. She wondered how many of the assembled mechanics there, all indifferent to her, were ex-cons like Angel Clements. Men trying to rebuild their lives. To leave the errors of their past behind them once and for all.
“I’m Gene Saltzman, by the way,” he said, offering a surprisingly clean hand. “This is my garage. What can I do for you?”
“My husband disappeared a few days ago,” she said, not volunteering too much information. She avoided mentioning Huntsville. She would have been forced to tell him that Albert worked for the prison system. It didn’t seem like the time or the place for that sort of information. “He never came here, that much I’m sure of, but a friend of his, a man I’m trying to get hold of, who might know where my husband is, once applied for a job here. He even came for an interview but was not hired.”
“Name?”
“Angel Clements. Back in the summer of 2003.”
Nothing in Saltzman’s face indicated he’d ever heard of him. “Before I got here. I bought the garage in 2005.” He turned toward the workshop. “Hurley!”
A few moments later an older black man, muffler in hand, appeared. He leaned heavily against the door frame.
“Angel Clements, that name mean anything to you? He applied for a job here in 2003 as a mechanic.”
Saltzman turned to Roselyn. “He was from New Orleans?”
“Savannah, Georgia.”
The man with the muffler scratched his head, thinking hard, but soon gave up. No idea. He turned around and went back to the shop.
Roselyn looked at Saltzman. “Clements spent some time in jail. He was on parole when he came to New Orleans. Maybe he’d seen an ad in the paper?”
“That’s not how mechanics are recruited. Not here at least.”
“Clements came all the way from Georgia …”
“Did you visit any of the other garages? He might have given a fake address or made a mistake.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. All my employees come from Delgado College. Back in the day it was easier to recruit mechanics, that’s for sure. You just took a young kid with a good attitude and partnered him with someone who’d been in the shop for a while. Today cars are stuffed with electronics, you know …” He smiled, and Roselyn nodded. “Give me your number, anyway. If I hear something …”
Roselyn told him.
“You’re from Georgia, too?”
“From Texas,” she said without giving details.
As she left the office, Roselyn could feel the mechanics looking at her this time. She was convinced that someone here knew Clements and that they were feigning indifference to avoid uncomfortable questions.
Back at the hotel, as she quickly ate a tasteless sandwich she’d gotten out of a vending machine in the lobby, Roselyn faced the facts. If she didn’t change her methods, she’d get nowhere.
As night fell, without a specific place in mind — the map given by the hotel turned out to be completely useless — she meandered about the French Quarter, ignoring the soulful jazz pouring out of every door. Tourists, young people mostly, were drinking crouched on the sidewalk, their bottles hidden in paper bags. Drunks crossed the street shouting after licence plates. A man pissed against a lamppost, another had passed out in a store entrance. While the old town was attractive during the day, at night it became simply repulsive. The whole area smelled like bad pizza and vomit. Roselyn suddenly missed Huntsville. All things considered, she told herself Albert would have hated this place.
21
It was a habit they’d inherited from British clubs, according to the president of the Tanzania Golf Association whom Max reached over the phone. Free publicity, of sorts. A small letter traced or engraved on the tee, given to players when they joined. Haki Suleiman, an outdoor sports store owner, had joined the organization — which he now headed — to promote golf among a new generation of Tanzanian businessmen. The association distributed prizes and trophies in an annual ceremony.
“It’s the ideal sport for professionals, that’s what I always say. On the links, you can meet customers, negotiate contracts, and develop new partnerships.”
“Fascinating,” Max said.
Suleiman added, “Did you know Barack Obama plays golf regularly?”
Max sighed. “So this letter B, it’s for the Bahari Beach Golf Course?”
“Correct you are.”
“Still owned by Thomas Musindo?”
“Should be.”
A few days before her house was invaded, before she and her daughter were tortured to death, Valéria had visited the father of Clara Lugembe’s killer. What would have been the reason for this meeting? One thing was sure: her trip had begun in a panic, Valéria hitting the road suddenly in utmost secrecy. On her return, someone had broken into her home to kill her — and it wasn’t the nobody hoodlum Kilonzo had dragged before the cameras.
The Bahari Beach Golf Course was forty kilometres from Dar es Salaam, off the road to Bagamoyo. After speaking with Suleiman, Max tried to reach Thomas Musindo at the golf course, but no dice.
Max got on his computer, looking for information about the man. After his son’s arrest, a few articles testified to the despair and distress of the nurse’s parents. Pictures on the Citizen’s website showed Musindo, a tall, powerful-looking individual. Another photo showed him in front of the clubhouse, trapped by journalists, forced to answer their questions. In another picture, also taken on the sly, he was seen jumping into a car beside the courthouse in the early days of the trial. In the background, a woman, her face half hidden by a policeman’s extended arm. His wife, already ill, who would die from a heart attack the following year, according to another article.
In the Daily News and the Express, the same sort of pictures and articles.
And nothing else.
Max pulled a bottle of Scotch from his suitcase and collapsed onto the couch, glass in hand. He should be sleeping. Recuperating. But his mind rattled in every direction, trying in vain to find the link between leads that seemed to point in different directions.
His cellphone rang, waking him up, his glass still in his hand. A man’s voice.
“So you’re looking into me, I hear.”
Max shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. He sat up, wide awake all of a sudden. “Who’s this?”
“Awadhi Zuberi.”
Jason Chagula, the lawyer, had lied to him. Not only had he stayed in contact with his former clients but he’d called Zuberi right after their meeting.
“I’d like to talk,” Max replied.
“I’ve got nothing to do with Valéria Michieka’s death,” Zuberi said.
“I’m sure you know something that might help me find whoever’s responsible.”
“I know nothing. I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
“But you might be able to talk to me about Samuel Musindo.”
A long silence.
“I’m not the police,” Max continued. “And I’ve got no intention of repeating what you
tell me. I’m looking into her murder for a single reason — I want to find who did it. That’s it.”
Silence again.
Zuberi’s voice faded back in, weak, distorted by static, as if he was calling from some faraway place. “Do you know where I live?”
“Yes … but the house is empty.”
“I’ll be there tonight. Midnight.”
An hour later Max was driving alongside Lake Victoria. He wasn’t happy about the idea of meeting the witch doctor, a criminal, in the middle of the night, a man who might be partly responsible for Valéria’s death. But Zuberi was his only lead. He couldn’t ignore it.
Outside Bukoba the darkness was complete. Opaque. As if some great tanker had foundered at the horizon, spilling its oil across the land. Max drove slowly, afraid he might hit an animal, or worse, a peasant walking along the road.
But the lakeside was deserted.
Chagula had described Zuberi as inoffensive. Fine and good, but that didn’t exonerate him, which was why Max was nervous.
But this meeting with the so-called healer was his first break since he’d started investigating the affair.
Around a bend, right before Kemondo Bay, a police roadblock. Why would they be watching this stretch of road in the middle of the night?
Max brought his Jeep to a stop.
A man sauntered out of a small van, higher up on the road. Inspector Henry Kilonzo, looking as fresh as a daisy. Max felt a sinking feeling: was this entire roadblock just for him?
“Mr. Cheskin …” The inspector smiled.
“What are you doing here, Kilonzo? Going after chicken thieves now that your murderer is behind bars?”
“Please exit the vehicle. Leave the keys where they are.”
Max sighed and opened his door.
Kilonzo led him aside while two police officers directed by Lieutenant Bruno Shembazi tore through the Jeep.
Another car appeared, drove right through the roadblock, and continued on its way.
So it is all just for me, Max realized.
“I thought I’d been clear,” Kilonzo said. “The police are taking care of the investigation, and we very kindly informed you of all developments.”
“You should think of a new career. You’re the funniest officer this side of Lake Victoria.”
Kilonzo wasn’t in a laughing mood. “You went to Kigali.”
“So?”
“And what were you looking for exactly?”
“Truth.”
“The truth is here before you. We’ve got our suspect. He’ll be confessing soon.”
“Confessing to what? And in any case, I don’t believe your suspect is the killer. And I don’t believe you do, either.”
“Why did you go to Rwanda?”
“To see a friend.”
“And you came back the very same day?”
“We got into a fight.”
A long silence. Kilonzo’s animosity was palpable. Max should have been a bit more careful around the inspector. But enough was enough. He was about to tell him to go bother someone else when Kilonzo spoke.
“I’ve had my eye on you since you’ve gotten here. I don’t trust you, Cheskin.”
“If we’re being honest, I feel the same way about you.”
Kilonzo sighed. “I’ll try again. What are you looking for exactly?”
“Valéria and Sophie’s killer.”
“I know. But what else?”
“I have no ill will toward you, Inspector, if that’s what you fear. I don’t care about your boss, or you career. I won’t shout from the rooftops that you’re an incompetent officer, more than likely corrupt, who’s done everything in his power to impede this investigation.”
Kilonzo remained silent, doing a poor job of hiding his anger.
“When I find who killed Valéria and her daughter,” Max continued, “I promise I’ll leave the country and won’t bother anyone anymore. Now let me go on my way.”
Kilonzo was about to give him a piece of his mind when a shout came from behind. It was Shembazi. “Sir, we found it!”
The two men turned in his direction. In the officer’s hand was a plastic bag with a gun in it.
Max was sitting in the back of the van, flanked by two goons. Shembazi drove. Kilonzo, in the passenger seat, turned around occasionally to glance at his prisoner. Looking through the window, Max tried to understand where he was being driven to. He was lost. They might not even be near the lake anymore. From the darkness, suddenly, people emerged. Obedient roadside ghosts that moved out of the way of the passing van.
Inside, total silence.
Zuberi had phoned him out of nowhere. Kilonzo knew all about his trip to Kigali. A police checkpoint on the road to the witch doctor’s house, its only target Max. And now this little trip in the middle of the night with Kilonzo and friends.
Max sighed. This wouldn’t end well.
Soon, the van began moving down a poorly maintained gravel path.
Max couldn’t help himself any longer. “Where are we going?”
Kilonzo gazed at him, impassive. What was the point of this masquerade?
“Oh, by the way, the revolver — not the most original trick. It doesn’t intimidate me, Kilonzo. Where did you get it?”
The man held his silence.
Max tried again. “I’m sure you know all sorts of things I don’t. And I might be able to tell you a few things. We could work together, you and I.”
“You! Tell me something I don’t know? What are you talking about?”
Max burst out laughing. “Not here, not like this. Bring me back to my Jeep, take your gun, and let me go to my meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“Free me and I’ll tell you everything.”
The van stopped in front of a warehouse, a sort of hangar, where a number of other police cars were parked. The constant to and fro of uniforms stopped when Shembazi got out of the van with his prisoner. Max recognized a few faces from the initial investigation of Valéria’s death, men he’d seen at her house in Bukoba.
Shembazi dragged Max toward the warehouse door. Kilonzo led them in, making an entrance. He walked quickly, determined, overbearing. In a strange, solemn, theatrical atmosphere, Max felt he was playing the role of the protagonist, the tragic hero expected for far too long and now finally coming onto the scene to the audience’s great relief.
“If you’re trying to scare me, Kilonzo, you’ve done it.”
Not turning around, the inspector barked, “Shut up.”
“If you’d just listen to me for five minutes …”
Without answering, Kilonzo opened the door, with Max preceding him inside. The place seemed like storage space for farm equipment. He noticed spotlights farther off, policemen crouched or leaning over the ground, absorbed by their work. Serious-looking men in lab coats.
A crime scene.
The men moved aside in silence.
Kilonzo pushed his prisoner in front of him. On the ground, a body, covered in plastic sheeting that bore the symbol of the area’s regional police. Kilonzo gestured with his head for an agent to pull back the tarp.
Max peered at the man. Dried blood covered his chest, hiding the fatal gunshot wound.
Kilonzo approached the body, gave it a little nudge with his boot. “Awadhi Zuberi. A pioneer of AIDS treatment. Benefactor to the poor and maligned. But you know him, don’t you? You’re the one who killed him. With the gun we found in your Jeep.”
Kilonzo turned to face Max. Stared at him in silence, knowing his colleagues were watching the show. Clearly, the inspector was enjoying every second of this charade.
“That’s why you went to Kigali, right? To meet his lawyer so he’d introduce the two of you. I have no idea what you offered him. Money, most likely. Or perhaps you threatened him. With what? It doesn’t matter. Chagula gave you the healer’s location, just as you wished.”
“You’re crazy, Kilonzo.”
“Zuberi said the same thing when I warned
him. I told him that one of Valéria Michieka’s former lovers had landed in the country and was convinced he was guilty of her death, as well as her daughter’s. I told him to keep his head down, to leave the country even. But, no, he wouldn’t listen. Curiosity overcame reason. He called you at your hotel to meet you.”
“Enough! This is ridiculous.”
“He wanted money, too, didn’t he? You refused to give him a penny. Or maybe you got into an argument over something else. It doesn’t matter, either. You felt threatened, you killed him.”
“Are you done?”
“I’m just getting started, Cheskin. Over the past few days, I’ve been hearing about a con man who scammed Jonathan Harris, Sunflower’s CEO. You’ve heard about them, I’m sure? They’re in the mobile phone business. Harris is an old buddy of Joseph Lugembe. The president is furious that someone went after one of his friends, and on Tanzanian soil, no less! He promised Harris he’d do everything in his power to find the man responsible.”
Max was blinded by a flash of light. Next to Kilonzo, an officer held a camera in his hand.
The inspector smiled. “I’m sure Harris will have no trouble identifying you. When I discovered that you matched Robert Flanagan’s description, I felt confidence in the future. This arrogant foreigner who treated Tanzania’s police like the most awful amateurs, giving lessons to everyone, was, in reality, nothing more than a vulgar criminal.”
He walked toward Max, leaned close to him, and whispered, “I’m going to get a promotion thanks to you, Cheskin. The president called me already to congratulate me. He claims I bring honour to the Tanzanian police, says I’m bound for a bright future.” He smiled again. “All we need now is to find Harris’s money and we’ll close two cases at once. How efficient can one man be?”
