“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?”
Thompson was across the street. He did not see me. I moved behind a street pole. “No, honey. Only you can have that effect on me. You know that, don’t you?”
“Hmm.”
I switched the phone to my other ear. Wike had come out of the store. He was on the other side of the street, slowly walking toward a spot maybe fifty feet to my right, clutching nylon bags of junk food in both hands. Thompson was moving slowly.
“Tammy? Hello?”
“Sorry. Working. Watching someone.” The street was very crowded. I did not like this.
“Who?”
“Okpara’s personal aide. I met him during the bombing. I don’t like the guy and I figure maybe he knows something about the bombing.”
“Should I hang up?”
“Not yet. Uh, no. I need to look like I’m doing something other than watching him.”
“Thanks. Glad I’m useful.”
“Sorry.” Still watching Wike. He was nearing a parked car, struggling with the weight of the bags while reaching for his car keys. Thompson, tall and gangly, was now walking purposefully toward him. And he took a.22 from his pocket.
I flipped the cell closed and pulled out my police special. “Police!”
Wike and Thompson both heard me. Wike looked at me, then started to turn to see what I was looking at. He never saw Thompson. In a moment, Thompson had put four rounds into Wike’s chest. Two nylon bags of junk food fell to the street. Red appeared all over Wike’s shirt. He fell back against his car.