D’Agosta understood immediately. He was champing at the bit to peel off the veneer of holiness and get the dirt on Adeyemi; Pendergast was kindly giving him the lead to do so. The ball was in his court. He shifted in his chair.
“Mr. Obaje,” he said. “You just told us you and Dr. Adeyemi practically grew up together.”
“A figure of speech. We went to university together. Benue State University, in Makurdi — we were both part of its first graduating class in 1996.” A smile of pride briefly broke through the pained expression that was practically graven onto his face.
D’Agosta had taken out his notebook and was jotting this down. “I’m sorry. Benue?”
“One of the newer Nairobi states, created in 1976. ‘Food Basket of the Nation’—”
“I see.” D’Agosta continued his scribbling. “And you knew her well at the university?”
“We were reasonably well acquainted, both at school and in the years that followed immediately after.”
Immediately after. Good. “Mr. Obaje, I realize this is a very difficult time for you, but I must ask you to be as candid with us as possible. We are trying to solve a series of murders here — not just that of Dr. Adeyemi, but several others as well. Now, everything I’ve heard about Dr. Adeyemi has been laudatory in the extreme. People are practically calling her a saint.”
“In Nigeria, that is, in effect, what she’s considered.”
“Why is that, exactly?”
Obaje spread his hands as if the reasons were too numerous to list. “All this is a matter of record. She herself became the youngest governor of Benue State, where she instituted numerous measures aimed at reducing poverty and improving education, before ultimately moving to Lagos. She went on to establish a series of HIV clinics across West Africa. In addition, she almost single-handedly instituted a wide range of educational programs. Despite constant threats of violence, and without thought to her own safety, she courageously pursued a message of peace across our neighboring countries. All these initiatives have saved many thousands of lives.”
“That sounds impressive.” D’Agosta continued to scribble. “But I’ve often noted, Mr. Obaje, that when somebody rises particularly fast in life, they do so by stepping on somebody else’s toes. I hope you’ll excuse the question, but did Dr. Adeyemi achieve her success at the expense of others?”
Obaje frowned, as if he didn’t understand the question. “I’m sorry?”
“Did she walk over other people in order to secure her personal successes?”
Obaje shook his head vigorously. “No. No, of course not. That was not her way.”
“What about her past? Her family? Did you ever hear any rumors about them? You know — misdeeds of one sort or another? Perhaps her father made his fortune through unscrupulous business dealings, for example?”
“Her father died when she was twelve. Not long afterward, her mother entered a convent and her only brother enrolled in a seminary, eventually becoming a priest. Wansie made her own way in the world — and she made it honestly.”
“Left on her own at such a young age — that’s hard no matter where you live. Did she perhaps cut corners in order to get ahead, or — you’re a man of the world, Mr. Obaje — find that she had to supplement her income via certain, ah, time-honored ways?”
The look of sorrow on Obaje’s face turned to one of surprise and affront. “Of course not, Lieutenant. Frankly, I’m disturbed and shocked by this line of questioning.”
“My apologies.” Better back off just a little. “I’m just trying to establish if she had any enemies who might have wished her ill.”
“She certainly did have enemies. Jihadist groups were violently opposed to the HIV clinics and her educational efforts with women. It seems to me that is a lead you should be following up.”
“Was Dr. Adeyemi married?”
“No.”
“Were there any men — or, perhaps, women — that she had any relationships with? I mean of an especially close nature.”
Obaje answered with a peremptory “No.”
It did not take D’Agosta long to write down this response, but he made a show of taking additional copious notes. At last he looked up again. “You said you knew the ambassador both during university and afterward.”
Obaje gave a clipped nod. “For a time, yes.”
“Then — once again, please forgive my bluntness, but it’s our duty to ask difficult questions — during that time did you ever hear gossip about her; anything that might reflect badly?”
At this, Obaje stood up. “No, and frankly, once again I’m taken aback at the tenor of your questions. You’ve come into my office with the obvious intent of tarnishing her reputation. Let me tell you, Lieutenant — her reputation is above reproach, and you will find nothing, anywhere, that will lead you to a different conclusion. I don’t know what lies behind this crusade of yours, but I will not entertain it or you any longer. This meeting is at an end. Now, sir: kindly leave this office and this building.”
Out on the street, D’Agosta angrily shoved his notebook into his coat pocket. “I should have expected that,” he growled. “Frigging whitewash. Turning the lady into a martyr.” He shook his head. “Administrative assistant. Christ.”
“My dear Vincent,” Pendergast said as he wrapped his overcoat more tightly around his narrow person, “let me tell you a little bit about Mr. Obaje. You heard him tell you that Dr. Adeyemi was the youngest governor of Benue State.”
“Yeah. So?”
“What he did not tell you was that he was also a candidate for that same governorship. At the time, Obaje’s political star was on the rise. Great things were expected of him. But he lost the election — by a landslide. After that, Obaje’s star continued to fall. And now you find him here, an administrative assistant in the Nigerian mission, his career eclipsed, thanks to Dr. Adeyemi — through no fault of her own, of course.”
“What’s your point?”
“Simply this: I singled him out for an interview because he had the greatest reason to disparage and denigrate her.”
“You mean, to trash her?”
“In your vernacular, precisely.”
D’Agosta’s jaw worked for a moment. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that going in?”
“If I had, you wouldn’t have pressed him as hard as you did. I did this to spare you countless additional hours of fruitless research and interrogatory. You could spend a month hunting for skeletons, but I fear you won’t find any. The truth is as simple as it looks: the woman is a saint.”
“But that can’t be! It knocks the hell out of our motive.”
“Ah, but it is not ‘our’ motive.”
“You don’t buy it?”
Pendergast hesitated. “There is indeed a motive for these murders. But it is not the motive that you, the NYPD, and all of New York seem to believe.”
“I…” D’Agosta began, then stopped. He felt deflated, manipulated, kept in the dark. It was typical Pendergast, but in this instance he felt dissed — and it made him irritated. More than irritated. “Oh, I get it — you’ve got a better theory. One that you’ve been keeping, as usual, from everyone.”
“I am never arbitrary. There is always a method to my mystifications.”
“So let’s hear this dazzling theory of yours.”
“I didn’t say I had a theory; I only said yours was wrong.”
At this D’Agosta laughed harshly. “Well, shit, then go knock yourself out chasing your theories. I know what I’ve got to do!”
If Pendergast was surprised by this outburst, it manifested itself only in a slight widening of his pale eyes. He said nothing, but after a second or two merely nodded, turned silently on his handmade English shoes, and began making his way down Second Avenue.