Treachery in the Yard tp-1

by Adimchinma Ibe

  “Detective,” Chief said, his voice changing to something resembling friendly, “you are in the middle of an interagency task force operation involving the police and the National Drug Law and Enforcement Agency. We are trying to break the Duncan gang and flush out Barigha and others. Police Commissioner Ahmed Abdullah put me in charge. Now you may have put Osamu on alert, and we had to bring you in. Osamu is not to be rattled. Not now. We need enough evidence to put them all behind bars. Do you understand?”

  “I do, sir, but. .”

  “No buts. Stop seeing him. You’re not going to ruin a year and a half’s work against these criminals by playing the hero.”

  “Isn’t it in your operation’s best interests that he thinks the police are after him-not about your investigation, but mine? Would that not throw him off?”

  Akpan scratched his chin. “He has a point.”

  Chief chewed on it. “If I let you proceed, detective, what would you do?”

  “Get Dr. Puene, using Osamu. If I get enough dirt on his hands, maybe he’ll turn over Puene.”

  “Out of the question,” Chief said after a moment. “We don’t know if it’ll work. Maybe he’ll think you’re somehow our point man on the Duncan gang. Maybe he’ll shred his papers and skip town. Then our operation is in the toilet. I am not changing my plan. You’ve already done enough damage, just going to see him.”

  “If I don’t see him again about Thompson, Osamu would get even more suspicious. He doesn’t expect me to back out easily.”

  Akpan nodded in support when Chief looked at him.

  “Very well,” Chief said reluctantly. “But report every detail to me. And you are now part of the interagency Special Ops. You will report directly to me and no one else. No one else. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, Chief. Perfectly clear.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A few minutes later, I was out of the cool air and back into the heat, although Chief’s office had been hot enough. Forty minutes later, I parked across the street from Osamu’s office and went upstairs to the top floor, the envelope of photos under my arm. I walked up to Carol’s desk. She recognized me and pressed a button. A red button.

  I smiled. “Good afternoon, lady. Is your boss free?”

  The door to the office opened, revealing an unsmiling Osamu. “Again, detective? Leave before I call security.”

  I smiled again. “Good afternoon, counselor. I came by to drop this off,” I said, handing him the envelope.

  He opened it. The photos slid out onto his open palm. He took one look and his eyes narrowed.

  “Carol, hold my calls,” he said.

  “Do I call security?” she asked rather sweetly.

  “No need for that. No need.” He walked back into his office. I winked at Carol. She frowned.

  I followed Osamu into his office, closing the door behind us.

  “I assume the headless man is me?”

  “Doesn’t he look better?”

  “Detective, your point is what, exactly? That I drive in my car? That I walk in the streets?”

  “We know all about his plan. We know Thompson works for him. We know Thompson killed Mrs. Karibi, too. Mrs. Karibi saw Angus Sekibo. I need to find Thompson and the murder weapon; he’ll be going down. Counselor, if you’ve moved past being an attorney and into being an accomplice, you can still save yourself. Throw in with us. Tell me what you know about the bombing and the plot to take political control of Port Harcourt.”

  His face went into frown mode. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about.” He was a bad liar, especially for a lawyer.

  I leaned forward, inches from his face. “He is not a nice fellow. He’s unfit to lead. It’ll be partly your fault if such a man becomes governor.”

  “How dare you speak to me this way!”

  “You don’t have much choice. You have to work with me. By now, he probably knows I am seeing you. If he doesn’t know, I’ll see to it he does. I bet you can guess how they treat a snitch. Help us nail him. I can guarantee your safety.”

  “I do not need any guarantees for my safety. If you keep this up, it is you who will need protection.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  He backed off immediately. “You are trying to blackmail me, detective.”

  “Sure I am. Call me. Don’t wait long. You may not have long to act.”

  When I walked out of the building I looked up and down the road for our surveillance van. If Osamu was being watched, the van should be somewhere. I saw nothing-which probably meant good surveillance. If I were they, I would park a block or two up the road, out of obvious sight.

  I got into my car and drove two blocks.

  There it was, parked quietly on the street, windows dark. I imagined the boys sweating in the van, waiting and watching, taking pictures with a long telephoto lens, conducting audio surveillance, downloading it all automatically. Special Ops had resources I could only dream about.

  If I could not have decent equipment or support, at least I had one advantage over the men locked in the van: for me, it was time for lunch. Let them stay glued to their telephoto lenses and wireless speakers. At least I got to be outside and enjoy good meals at nice restaurants around town. I started to drive to one as I replayed the drama in Osamu’s office in my mind.

  Howell was not a bad guy. . maybe. He came across as controlled by forces he could not stop. Was he just a lawyer who had the usual guilty clients? Or was he more than a lawyer to the criminals who controlled parts of Nigeria?

  My cell phone rang. I saw a number I had not seen before.

  “Detective, it’s Howell Osamu.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  He must have already known or guessed about the surveillance, and my visit pushed him over the edge. He had risen to the top ranks by knowing how to play the angles-so I had to be careful.

  “You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”

  “I’m not doing it to make you happy, you son of a bitch.”

  “You don’t have to call me names. How about we meet in the Pledge in an hour?”

  “A public place?”

  “Why not? They know we’ve met, and I was about to go for lunch.”

  “Fine.” The line went dead.

  Remarkably, everything was working according to plan. That did not happen often. I called Femi and filled him in.

  “Sure he’s not jerking your chain?”

  “No, but I am sure he is a jerk.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Look, Femi, I think I know this type. He’s scared, scared enough to try and play me. You should have seen his expression when he saw the photographs. A few minutes later, he calls to meet.”

  “He’s powerful.”

  “In the end, he’s just a lawyer.”

  “Okay, so he’s a weasel. But he’s a powerful weasel.”

  “A weasel running for cover.”

  “Weasels can run fast. Do you really think he’s been broken so easily? You might be walking into a trap.”

  “I set it up for the Pledge. It’s a public place.”

  “I could watch from an unmarked car.”

  “Thanks. But I don’t think he’s moved too fast to set something up that would put me in any danger. It wouldn’t make sense to do anything to me, anyway. I’m just one more cop. I think he’s wanted to do this for a long time. Maybe he’s been disgusted with Puene but can’t help himself.”

  “Now you’re back to his being a lawyer.”

  I called Chief Olatunji next. He answered almost immediately, as if he’d been watching his phone. “Yes?” he asked quietly.

  “Sir, I’ve just seen Osamu. He’s on board. I’m meeting him at the Pledge in an hour.”

  “Good work, detective. I’ll have Okoro and his team in position before Osamu gets there. I’ll be here if you need me. Make sure you call after you meet with him.”

  “Thanks, Chief. I’ll call as soon as I finish talking with him.
”

  “Fine. Get to work.”

  I took a drink from one of the bottles of water in my car and started toward the restaurant, planning to get there first, before anyone else could set up a trap. Maybe I’d even get something to eat first, perhaps pounded yam and bitter leaf soup.

  Pounded yam is prepared from yam tubers, a perennial root crop in Nigeria. You first peel and wash the yam, then cook it until it becomes soft, after which you pound it in a mortar carved from wood. You swallow it with soup made from bitter leaf vegetables, palm oil, smoked fish, and beef. It is a major meal around here, a delicacy enjoyed in Nigeria, especially southern Nigeria.

  The restaurant was not busy yet. There were some free tables in the executive suite, the side of the restaurant with better airconditioning. It was more spacious, more exotic, more money. I took a table in the common area close to the bar, secluded but with a good view of the entrance and the other tables.

  I ordered some food while I settled in. It was lunchtime. The restaurant was about half full, with mostly bank execs, businessmen, wealthy traders, one or two university boys. My order came: pounded yam and bitter leaf soup with smoked fish and beef. I still had almost half an hour before Osamu arrived. The waitress did not bring the liquid soap and paper napkins, so I asked for some. When it came, I washed my hands and then ate, using my hands.

  A few minutes later, and earlier than I expected, Osamu showed up. He had not used his car, arriving instead in a taxi. He stepped out of it and turned around to pay the driver when a white truck stopped ten yards away. I could not see them clearly through the restaurant window, and certainly did not see their guns-but the gunshots I heard loud and clear. Four shots, two quick ones each from two guns. Bang bang, bang bang. Not very loud. Then they were speeding away, already gone amid the street traffic and pedestrians, no one stopping them.

  By then I was running out of the restaurant, my pistol ready, but the assassins were gone. Osamu sat slumped on the ground, briefcase on the sidewalk next to him, clutching his chest and spitting blood, looking surprised. Very surprised. Two rounds had missed him, but he had not been so lucky about the other two.

  The taxi driver came out of his car, shouting hysterically. I told him to call an ambulance while I knelt by Osamu. I opened his case and used some of his legal papers to stop the bleeding, not very well, but then there was not much to do for him. He was already pretty dead.

  “You’ve got me killed, detective.”

  “Hang on. The ambulance will be here in a minute.”

  “I won’t make it. Tell my wife, tell her, oh the hell, don’t tell her anything.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  He coughed up some blood.

  The surveillance van screeched up and Akpan jumped out with two officers.

  “Did you see the shooters?”

  “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.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  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?”