“What?” Niza exclaimed. “You just shot holes in the airplane, and now you’re telling us to take off. We need something more, a lot more.”
Sarge nodded. “I agree. But that doesn’t mean Joseph can’t make the arrest. We have time to develop our evidence before trial.”
“You know as well as I do how dirty they’re going to fight,” Niza persisted. “They’ll hire Benson Luchembe and his band of con artists. They’ll tie the magistrate’s head in knots and line his pockets with enough kwacha to give his wife and children visions of grandeur. And that doesn’t take into account the pressure the Nyambos will exert behind the scenes.”
Sarge stared at Niza. “Since when have you run from a fight?”
Anger flared in her eyes. “Are you calling me a coward?”
Sarge shook his head. “I’m saying that all of us are here because we believe in the possibility of justice. When a child is raped in this city, we’re the ones who stand up to her abuser. Skeptics have no seat at this table. If you aren’t a believer, I need to know.”
Niza stomped out of the room, ignoring Mariam who tried to wave her back to the table.
Sarge looked around. “Sorry to do that. I’m sure she’ll get over it.”
Mariam cleared her throat. “I’ll contact the DPP at home and walk him through the evidence.” She stood, clutching her notebook. “Any more issues we need to discuss?” No one spoke. “Good. Joseph, Sarge, I need you on the call with me. And Niza, if you can find her.”
“I’ll get her,” Sarge said.
Joseph motioned to Zoe, and she followed him to the kitchen.
“Impressive work,” she said.
He shrugged. “Darious was your discovery. Listen, I’m not sure it’s relevant, but he didn’t stay at his father’s place last night. He went to Alpha Bar and left with a couple of mahules. He stayed at a flat in Northmead. Early this morning he drove back to Kabulonga.”
“If he’s consorting with prostitutes—”
“Then he could have been a client of Bella’s. I think it might be beneficial to have another talk with Doris. Show her the pictures I took; see if she remembers him.”
She looked at him carefully. “You’re going to let me do it?”
He nodded. “She trusts you.”
Zoe smiled. “Send me the photos and I’ll stop by her place when I leave.”
A few minutes after ten o’clock, Mariam called Zoe into her office. Joseph, Sarge, and a chastened-looking Niza were already there. For the past fifteen minutes they had been on a conference call with Leviticus Makungu, the Director of Public Prosecution. It was a call Zoe had asked to join, but Mariam had excluded her on account of her expat status. The DPP was sensitive about foreign interference in the justice system. Zoe sat down. “How did it go?”
Mariam took a breath. “Levy expressed curiosity and caution. In light of the suspect’s identity, he’s concerned about evidence. He wants to see our reports.”
“Any favors we can call in?” Zoe asked.
“I used them all to keep him on the phone. He wasn’t thrilled about being bothered on a Saturday. The best I could get was the promise of a quick decision.”
“So we’re going to wait on the arrest?”
“I think it’s wise to get DPP approval,” Mariam said. “Darious isn’t going anywhere.” She folded her hands. “I’ll tell you what I told the others. Certain elements of this case don’t add up. Why would a man from such a prominent family rape a girl like Kuyeya? Joseph told us about Darious’s activities last night. It’s clear he has access to women. It doesn’t make sense, unless …”
“Sex wasn’t the only motive,” Zoe finished for her.
“Precisely.” Mariam met her eyes. “If Darious is the rapist, he must have assaulted Kuyeya for a reason. If we can find it, we might stand a better chance of persuading the Court to take this case seriously.” She took a breath. “You wanted to investigate Bella’s past. I’m giving you permission. Joseph told me you’re going to talk to Doris?”
Zoe nodded. “As soon as I leave.”
“Fine. But I want a full report on Monday.”
Twenty minutes later, Zoe stood outside Doris’s flat in Kabwata. The apartment complex was noisy with the sounds of weekend recreation—the voices of television newscasters wafting out of windows, the shouts of boys playing soccer in the parking lot. She knocked on Doris’s door. Silence. She knocked louder. Eventually, Bright appeared, wearing sweatpants and a scowl.
“What do you want?” the girl asked.
“I need to talk to your mother again.”
“She’s asleep. Come back later.”
Zoe didn’t budge. “It’s important. It’s about Kuyeya.”
The girl wavered in indecision. Then she disappeared into the hallway beyond the living room. Zoe heard a door open, then a bump and a groan, and finally the sound of loud whispering.
Bright returned and shook her head. “She isn’t available. Come back in a couple of days.”
Zoe felt compassion for the girl. “Did something happen?”
Bright blinked and Zoe saw moisture in her eyes. “Is she all right?” Zoe persisted.
The girl stood stiffly, unsure of herself.
“Where is Gift?” Zoe inquired, remembering Bright’s younger sister.
“She’s with him,” Bright murmured.
“Who?”
“Her father.”
“Is he here?”
Bright shook her head. “He took her away.”
Suddenly, Doris appeared, stooping like an old woman. She sat down on the couch and stared at the floor. Zoe was taken aback. Her lip was split, and she had bruises on her face.
“Who did this to you?” Zoe demanded, as Bright slipped by and vanished.
Doris rubbed her palms together. “It doesn’t matter. What do you wish to ask about Kuyeya?”
Zoe took a seat on the chair. “It does matter. The officer I work with is a member of the Victim Support Unit. He can file a report.”
“It wouldn’t do any good. Ask me your questions.”
Zoe eyed Doris sadly. In all likelihood, the woman was correct: involving the police was a fool’s errand in a culture in which men considered it a privilege, even an obligation, to abuse women.
“Okay,” she conceded. She showed Doris an image of Darious Nyambo that Joseph had taken. “Do you recognize this man?”
Doris tensed. “I know him.”
“How?” Zoe asked.
“He was a client.”
“When did you last see him?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Where was that?”
Doris gestured toward the door. “He was sitting in a truck on the street.”
Zoe’s heart rate increased. “Was he watching your apartment?”
Doris shrugged. “I don’t know. I went inside quickly.”
“You didn’t want him to see you.”
Doris touched her bruised cheek. “I didn’t want to work for him again.”
“Why not?”
“He was mean to me. And he was sick.”
Zoe raised her eyebrows. “How was he sick?”
“He had sores in his mouth and on his …” She pointed between her legs. “Also, he lost weight. He used to be bigger.”
“Before a few weeks ago, when was the last time you saw him?”
Doris hesitated. “It was two years ago. Not long after Bella died.”
“Was Darious a client of Bella’s, too?”
Doris nodded. “They were close. But then things changed and he stopped coming.”
Zoe felt a surge of gratification. “When were they close?”
“A long time ago. I don’t know. It was after she moved in with me.”
“Why did they have a falling out?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“When you say ‘close,’ what do you mean?”
Doris shifted in her seat and winced. “He took her out to the bars and bought her talkti
me. He gave her gifts. He was kind to her.”
Zoe softened her tone. “But he wasn’t kind to you.”
Doris closed her eyes and began to rock. When the silence lingered, Zoe considered her next move. Doris’s candor was the product of a fragile trust. It might not survive a misstep.
“You don’t have to tell me what he did to you,” Zoe said. “But it might help Kuyeya.”
After a moment, Doris opened her eyes again. She gave Zoe a haunted look. “The last time I saw him as a client, he beat me. Then he …” Her voice trailed off, and she began to cry.
“What did he do?” Zoe probed.
At last Doris choked out, “He raped Bright.”
The confession took Zoe’s breath away. She sat back against the chair, her gut churning with a strangely personal anguish. Bright was probably seventeen; two years ago she would have been around fifteen.
“I’m so sorry,” Zoe said after a long time. “Did you report it to the police?”
Doris collected herself. “They do not listen to women like me.”
Waiting a beat, Zoe asked, “Did he ever show an interest in Kuyeya?”
Doris shook her head. “He ignored her. It was as if she didn’t exist.”
Suddenly, Zoe had an idea. “Did Bella call him something other than his name?”
The question appeared to perplex Doris. “His name is Darious.”
“Never mind,” Zoe said. She slid to the edge of her chair, thinking of Bella’s journal resting on the coffee table in her flat.
She had to get back to it.
Chapter 8
It was noon by the time Zoe returned to her flat. She called Joseph and left a voicemail: “We were right about the client connection. But there’s more to it. Darious raped Doris’s daughter two years ago. It’s also possible he has AIDS. I don’t know if you’re up to it, but you might find a girl at Alpha Bar who would talk about him. I want to know how sick he is.”
Hanging up, she fixed herself a sandwich and ate it in the dining room. Afterward, she changed into her swimsuit and walked to the pool, carrying her backpack and Bella’s journal.
The garden was resplendent in the sunlight, festooned with the colors of spring—spade-tongued coleus, sprawling blue plumbago bushes, clusters of fern-like cycads, and bulb-rich rose bushes. She saw her neighbor, Kelly Summers, reading a novel on a lounge chair. The child of white Zimbabwean farmers, Kelly was married to Patrick Summers, a British-born World Bank consultant. Zoe spread out her towel beside Kelly and took a seat.
“Another pristine day,” she said, beginning to apply sunblock to her fair skin.
“Couldn’t be lovelier,” Kelly agreed, setting down her book.
Patrick emerged from the water and gave his wife a dripping kiss. “Hi, Zoe.”
“Many thanks, love,” Kelly replied, pushing him away. She smiled at Zoe. “We were thinking of having a braai at our place tonight. Save you the trouble, hey?”
The invitation took Zoe by surprise. She blinked behind her sunglasses, astonished that she had forgotten her own tradition. “You don’t need to do that,” she said, disguising her relief.
“Our pleasure,” Kelly said, as Patrick dived into the pool again. “We’ve noticed you’ve been busy. A new case? Or a boyfriend, perhaps?”
“A new case,” she replied.
“That’s a shame. A boyfriend would have been fun.” Kelly pointed at Bella’s journal. “What’s that?”
Zoe looked down at the notebook. “Something from work. It’s a long story.”
“And confidential, no doubt.” Kelly smiled. “Listen, there’s a new analyst at the World Bank office. His name is Clay Whitaker. He’s very smart—a Yale graduate, like you—and he’s been all over southern Africa. He’s going to be at the braai tonight.”
At that moment, Zoe found herself grateful for the veil afforded by her sunglasses. “That’s kind of you,” she said, forcing herself to smile, “but I’m not looking.”
She stared at the moving water, feeling suddenly nauseous. It’s only a name, a random string of four letters. Get over it. But she couldn’t. Over and over the name played in her mind, like a record stuck on a discordant note. Clay … Clay … Clay. At once she felt the sun on every inch of exposed flesh. She steeled her mind against the memories: a picnic at East Beach in late summer; the Vineyard air heated to a blaze; the calls of the gulls competing with the pounding of the surf; the boy whose mouth carried the taste of sea stones; the lines of verse he read; the rhapsody of infatuation, desire tempered by nerves; the line she drew, the “no” she spoke, and the moment he overpowered her and his love became a lie.
She felt the weight of Bella’s journal in her hands and focused all her mental energy on the present. But it wasn’t enough. Abandoning the chair, she broke the surface of the pool with a dive and went limp, allowing herself to hang in suspension, buoyed by the air in her lungs. The raw shock of cold on her hot skin cleansed her mind, leaving behind only the immediacy of the moment. She floated through the haze until she could no longer hold her breath. She found her footing and stood, blinking away the reflected light.
“Everything all right?” Patrick asked, treading water. “You were under a long time.”
“I’m fine,” Zoe said.
She returned to her chair and dried off, feeling more composed. Opening Bella’s journal, she worked out a strategy. If Bella had a relationship with Darious after she met Doris, then it was likely she had mentioned him in the first half of the journal. The problem was she had concealed his name in code. The clues Doris offered were threadbare: they went out to the bars and he gave her gifts. But Zoe understood the power of gestalt—the truth spoken by the whole, not simply by the particulars.
She read for two hours, pausing only to reapply sunblock. She found a number of repeat clients in the pages. One Bella called “Levi’s man,” but he met her on the street and never spent the night with her. Another she called “Mr. Niceguy.” In addition to sex, he took her dancing at the bars. A third she called “Godzilla.” He paid double her rate but often left her with bruises. Finally, there was “Siluwe.” He was complex, educated, a conversationalist. But she didn’t seem to trust him. Indeed, her descriptions suggested that she had feared him.
Zoe ruled out the Levi’s man and Godzilla and weighed Mr. Niceguy against Siluwe. According to Doris, Darious had given Bella gifts. Mr. Niceguy always paid with cash. Siluwe, by contrast, was a regular Santa Claus. Siluwe is Darious Nyambo, she decided.
They had met at Alpha Bar. He had bought her drinks and lavished her with such affection that she had forgotten to charge him the next morning. He reappeared in four subsequent letters. Each time Bella described his gifts—an expensive meal, a mobile phone—but her sentiments were guarded. Then without warning he disappeared from the journal.
She heard her iPhone chirp in her bag, and saw a text message from Joseph: “Good idea about Alpha. Are you hosting a braai tonight?”
She typed back: “Friends next door are cooking. Let Sarge and Niza know.”
A few seconds later she received his response: “Will do. I’ll be there around 1800.”
Then Zoe had a thought. “Does the name Siluwe mean anything to you?”
He replied: “Siluwe means leopard in Tonga. Why?”
Zoe felt a chill. “I’ll tell you over dinner.”
That evening, Zoe put on her favorite jeans and a black top and walked across the parking lot to the house rented by Patrick and Kelly Summers. She tossed a greeting to Patrick at the grill and went looking for Kelly. She found her in the kitchen assembling a cheese tray with the help of a thirty-something blond man in khakis and a button-down shirt.
“You must be Zoe,” the man said, smiling at her in an easy way. “I’m—”
“Clay,” she said. “The expat community is like a fraternity. New pledges make waves.” She leaned against the countertop. “So what’s your angle? Are you coming to the Bank as a supporter or critic of the development pr
ogram?”
“Both, I suppose,” he said. “But I’ve been with the Bank for seven years.”
“Then you can’t be too much of a critic.”
He shrugged. “I’m only critical of projects that don’t work.”
“Ah. So here’s a project guaranteed to succeed. Build a DNA lab in Lusaka. Show the world that reforming the African justice system is as important as infrastructure and investment.”
He scratched his chin. “An intriguing proposition. But I work in the energy sector.”
“Right. Not your problem.” She looked at Kelly. “What can I do to help?”
Her friend handed her a chopping knife and pointed to a cluster of vegetables. “Slice and dice,” she replied, watching Clay carry the cheese tray out to the porch. “And try to be nice.”
At six fifteen, the guests arrived in a rush. They were a diverse bunch—development types and foreign servants, along with a British academic and a Peace Corps volunteer leader in from the hinterlands. With unconscious precision, they sorted into gender-defined cliques—the men by the grill, sipping beers and swapping war stories, and the women on the porch, chatting over glasses of wine. Only Clay broke the barrier. All of the ladies seemed taken by him except Zoe who found herself looking toward the gate, watching for Joseph.
When at last he arrived, Patrick was dishing out burgers and chicken. “Just in time,” she quipped, handing him a paper plate.
He smiled at her. “Nice to see you, too.”
“Are the others coming?”
“Sarge had family obligations, and Niza wasn’t in the mood.”
After filling their plates, the guests ate together on the lamp-lit porch; the few who couldn’t find chairs sat on the ground. In between bites of hamburger, Zoe filled Joseph in on her conversation with Doris and her discovery of Siluwe, the leopard, in Bella’s journal.
“Do you think you can convince Doris to testify?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. She hates him, but she’s also afraid of him.”
“Siluwe. It’s a fascinating name. The leopard hunts in the dark.”
Zoe was about to respond when the voice of Clay Whitaker interrupted her thoughts.
“The power station at Batoka Gorge might actually get off the ground,” he was saying to a doe-eyed girl from USAID. “It’s an extraordinary thing, really, for a private company to guarantee the debt of a sovereign.”
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 9
