Hosiah came in and tugged at Dawson’s trousers. “Daddy, Mammy says come and grate the cheese because we’re going to start baking the pizza.”
Hours later, a contented, pizza-filled Hosiah was fast asleep, there had been a power failure, and Dawson, drowsy and spent, was sprawled naked and sweating on the bed in the dark beside an equally naked Christine.
“Hmm,” she murmured.
“What?”
“You’re amazing. You used so much energy you cut the electricity.”
He laughed languidly. “You must have put something in that delicious pizza. Christine’s Aphrodisiac Pizza. If you open a shop with that name, the place would be mobbed.”
“I could offer special Ghanaian toppings.”
“Kenkey pieces for the Ga consumers,” Dawson contributed.
Christine snorted. “Miniature fufu balls.”
“Tatale.”
“Fried yam.”
They went on suggesting the most outlandish toppings possible, laughing until the pain in their sides stopped them.
First thing in the morning, Dawson, showered and fresh, went to SCOAR and found Socrate in his office.
“How are you, Inspector? Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Can I help you with something?”
“I have a question for you.” Dawson eyed Socrate long enough for him to start to get uncomfortable. “Yesterday, who was really responsible for Antwi being in the storeroom?”
Socrate frowned. “I don’t get you.”
“I don’t think it’s physically possible for somebody to fit in there and pull the door closed.”
“Is your question to me which of his friends might have helped him hide and then closed the door on him?”
“No, that’s not exactly my question.”
“Oh, all right.” Socrate laughed. “Then I don’t know how I can be of any help to you.”
“Did you know Antwi had never seen this storeroom himself, and he only had a vague idea where it is? So I was trying to put myself in his shoes. Would I really run to the storeroom to hide, not having seen it or been there before, or would I take my chances and try to escape the building without Inspector Dawson spotting me? You know what I mean? Getting out of the building, if I can, is a much better option than hiding in the building.”
“I would think so, but, well… kids. They are what they are. And these ones in particular? Many of them are born liars, thieves, and tricksters. Antwi is one of them. There isn’t an honest bone in his body.”
“Did you ever feel the need to apply corrections to these children? Physical punishments?”
“We try to impart moral behavior to them every day, Inspector, but physical punishment is not part of our methods.”
“You’ve never beaten any of the children?”
Socrate shook his head hard. “We never do that.”
“I meant you in particular.”
“What are you implying?”
“There are some stories about you. Forcibly locking the kids up in the storeroom. Applying electric shocks…”
Socrate lifted his massive frame from his chair and leaned across his desk. “Inspector, I beg you. Do not come in here to make disgusting accusations about me to my face. For you to take the word of this… this worthless Antwi over mine is just insulting.”
“Worthless?” Dawson asked in surprise.
“Yes, he’s worthless!” Socrate’s face contorted with sudden fury. “Compared to me, to Genevieve, to everyone who spends precious time slaving over kids like Antwi with nothing to show for all that work, yes, he’s worthless. Do you understand me, Inspector? This is Ghana, the real world. What we put on our website and in those brochures with those stupid pictures of smiling children we so sweetly call success stories is far from the reality. These aren’t street children we’re dealing with, Inspector Dawson, these are street vermin.”
Socrate sat down as abruptly as he had stood up. His face was streaming with sweat, and there were broad rings of perspiration in his armpits that had not been there just a minute ago. He rested his forehead against his palms, chest heaving with wheezing breaths, as if he had just completed a sprint.
Dawson was speechless.
“Socra?”
He lifted his head as Genevieve came in.
“Socra, are you all right? What’s going on?” She came to his side, squeezing his shoulder and rubbing his neck. She lowered her voice so it became silky and soothing. “Slow down your breathing, Socra… slow… slower… that’s right, you know how to do this… you’re doing fine… that’s better.”
“I’m okay,” he said in a strangled voice. “Sorry. I’ll just go outside for a while.”
He stood, almost upsetting his chair, then left the office with shoulders hunched over.
Genevieve stared at Dawson. For the first time, he saw hostility. He turned his palms up and lifted his shoulders. “Don’t even ask me what happened, because I don’t know. I thought we were just talking-”
“About what?”
“The episode with Antwi.”
“Why are you bringing that up again, Inspector Dawson?” she said coldly. “Why? Please. Let it rest. It’s over and done with.”
“But maybe not. There are accusations against Socrate.”
“What accusations? What are you talking about?”
“Locking kids up in the storeroom, torturing them with electric shocks.”
“Torturing! Inspector, please. You heard this from Antwi?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t think Antwi’s making this kind of stuff up? You don’t see how that would serve his own interests?”
“Why should he make this up? What does he have to gain from it? I don’t know about your employee Socrate. There’s something loose somewhere.”
“He can be a little highly strung and emotional.”
“A little?”
She gave him a look that could have withered a plant.
“All right, okay,” he said, standing up. “I’ll go.”
At the door, he turned. “Has your organization always been called SCOAR?”
“In the beginning, when I took it over, it was something else. I renamed it.”
“By that time, had Socrate already come onboard?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He must have been something special to you.”
“He helped me get this place off the ground, Dawson. It was a mess, and I’m grateful to him for all his help in turning it into a success.”
“Which is why you can’t ask him to leave. Puts you in a tough position. After all, this place bears his name.”
“What do you mean?”
“Socra. It’s an anagram of SCOAR.”
Genevieve smiled slightly. “You are very clever.”
“Thank you,” he said. She didn’t escort him out.
Once Genevieve had left for the evening, Socrate was alone and SCOAR was as quiet as a library. This was his favorite time. Just him and his computers-especially on a Friday night like this. He would work on the website, answer emails, and surf the Internet. If this were all he had to do all day long, he would be happy.
First he had to attend to the Gennie-cam, as he called it. He had a key to her office, just as she did to his. They trusted each other completely. In the corner of the room left of the doorway, Socrate stood on a chair and took down one of the pair of miniature speakers. He snapped open its gray foam grille and removed the spy cam secured inside with putty.
Socrate waited as the data was uploading to his computer. He had set up the sound system for Genevieve a year ago. It was great for jazz, which Genevieve loved to listen to if she worked late. The idea for the spy cam began to haunt Socrate months later. The thought came out of nowhere, pounced, and would not let go. On the first few nights that he watched the days’ recordings of Genevieve in her office, his entire body burned with the excitement that every taboo engenders.
Now, as he searched through the week’s surveillance, he dreaded proving himself right that Inspector Dawson had designs on Genevieve. He had not liked the man from the very start, and after today’s events, he positively despised him.