PATRON OF TERROR Read online

  I got tired standing there asking myself questions.

  I showed the desk man my badge, told him I was in charge of the Puene investigation, and that he should try to find someone, somewhere. I asked him where the Jeep was, and I went back out into the yard. He looked embarrassed.

  The car looked a lot worse under the hot sun. I wiped some sweat from my eyes with a handkerchief, wishing I’d brought a bottle of water with me from my car.

  The Puene car was a mess. Front windows broken. On the passenger side, both windows broken. In some places, the glass had held, just cracked. It was designed to do that. But two windows were broken through, one where Puene had gone through, one where his wife had partly gone through, There was too much blood on the glass.

  I knelt by the driver’s side. Both tires on that side had bullet holes in them. Four in the front tire, three in the back.

  Seven bullet holes. Very nice, tight pattern in each tire. The tires would have blown out immediately. The driver did not have a chance. At the speed he was going, control of the car would be impossible. And the road was narrow with ditches close by on either side.

  No chance to straighten the car or stop it. Even if he did, the biker would be waiting with the Uzi.

  But it hit the ditch, rolled a few times before it struck the tree.

  My cell rang. It was headquarters calling to inform me that the officers who’d gone over to the driver’s apartment reported that Paul was there. I asked to be patched over to the constable, and asked him to give Paul the phone.

  The driver’s voice was young, shaken, exhausted. Despite the urgency I did not want to question him. He remembered me. I asked if he remembered anything about the bike, driver, his visor, anything? No.

  “Look Paul, go back to bed. I’m sorry to bother you. You know what I’m looking for. If you think of anything, have the constable call me. He has my number, if you want to speak with me directly. He’ll give it to you. How do you feel?”

  “I was with them four years. He was like my father.”

  “I’m very sorry. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “Thanks, but that doesn’t help. I feel pretty banged up. Maybe I’ll go back to the hospital later, I don’t know. First I’m going to lie down.”

  “Sure. They discharged you, but if you feel anything, go back.”

  “Sure.”

  I told him to give the constable the phone back. “Good work. Let’s let him rest. Call in your post, and have a constable at his door until evening. Keep the press out.”

  “I understand.”

  I told the constable to give him my number. Overnight coverage would be a good idea, I told him, if constables were available. If not, they could check regularly, to ensure the man had some peace. I’d be there tomorrow morning, after he’d had some rest.

  10

  I went back into the RumuOkoro post, and found the constables from last night waiting for me. Constable James was the first one I’d met on the scene. The other man was Constable Nnanna. The desk sergeant looked for my approval and got it.

  Constable Nnanna was the shorter and friendlier. He said they were at the accident site within a minute after it happened. They saw the rear red tail light of a motorcycle down the road, but then it was gone. They concentrated on the accident scene. They had no idea who the passengers were or how many there were at the time.

  Around the time I came along they’d seen the driver, behind an airbag, and a female passenger, half through the front window. Constable Nnanna went into considerable detail on the details.

  But briskly.

  I let him go on. Then they asked me how the investigation was going, after he finished his narration, and I told them I wished I knew. And I was beginning to wonder if this was a version of a good cop bad cop routine to get more information from me than I was being given (because James was quietly watching me while Nnanna was presumably being so riveting I would not notice him sizing me up).Was it because I was Homicide and they were local Officers covering themselves and acting with undue respect? Were they worried I suspected them of fouling up somehow, looking for someone to pin some blame on? Or were they maybe a Nigerian Laurel and Hardy.

  I thanked them both and told them they’d done fine work.

  They asked if I knew anything about the rumors of new air-conditioning for their post. I said given their excellent work, and attempt to save Mrs. Puene’s life, I was pretty sure several new air-conditioners would be on their way soon.

  They should know better.

  I could see their problem, as I was beginning to sweat even though the sole air- conditioner in sight was toiling full blast. I asked how long they’d been waiting for better air-conditioning.

  James finally said something: “Forever.”

  I got out my cell and called Stella. It was more for show than a real attempt to get them the much needed air-conditioners.

  “Stella, is the Chief there?”

  “Why do I recognize your voice? I’d hoped to forget.”

  “Is he in?”

  “No.”

  “I’m at the RumuOkoro post. The men here have done some great work on the Puene case, but they would do better if they had decent air-conditioning. Also, the media are going to show up here sooner or later, and do we want them to see the constables sweating?”

  “You have called the right person, Tammy. Leave it with me.”

  “Thanks, Stella. How about your sister?”

  “Keep your hands off her, Tammy.”

  I flipped the phone closed and when I looked at them, I felt a bit like God.

  I asked if the effects on the bodies had been sent to my office. They said they had been sent somewhere, but that was by the overnight shift, but they would check and make sure I got them, straight away. They said it real fast, and with gratitude I’d rarely seen.

  My work there was done. I thanked them both and they asked me to an early dinner. But I needed to get on, so I thanked them again and left them a lot more cheerful than I’d found them.

  I returned to my car and drove off towards a restaurant far enough away to be sure I would not have to eat with the matched set or anyone else I thought I might know. I needed some time to think. The place I chose had some cafe-styled tables and chairs, all set up near for a quick but decent meal at a fair price. I sat down but felt twitchy. I hadn’t really gotten anywhere, learned anything I did not know. I had to be at home, to mull it over. That was this detective’s best process towards the end of a long day.

  So I left the restaurant and found a nearby grocery, picked up some nice vegetables, and went back to my apartment.

  In my apartment I took off my jacket, put my pistol and holster on the table in the kitchen, opened the file, said “Baby, give me some sugar,” and started dinner.

  I stir fried a few of the vegetables, then sat at the table dabbing at the food while going through the photos and statements in the file. Then I cooked some more and ate it more leisurely, going through the file a second time, more slowly.

  Nothing new. Not a single lead.

  I went to the living room, got my latest list from my jacket pocket, some more paper from the table, and returned to the kitchen. During a third helping of vegetables I developed a new, larger list.

  Before the primaries, a number of names were floated within the NCP as potential Party flag bearers for the Governorship. I started to list them.

  The list was getting messy. I was glad I was using a pencil.

  I got up. I had to break my little brain out. So I left the kitchen and went into the living room and sat back on the couch and tried to think of something else for a while. At times, to make those creative jumps, you have to stop thinking about the case. Let it rumble in the background for a while. And I certainly needed rumbling if I was going to come up with anything creative, because right now there appeared nowhere to go.

  At night the best thing was to go to sleep. At least if you were alone.

  I have never under
stood that phrase, “I want to sleep with you.” Me, I’d want to stay awake.

  Be that as it may your hero was sitting in the dark, playing his flashlight across the curtains. I could have called Freda. Or Ruth, my nice next door neighbor. She had recently divorced her husband, Sam Inome. Sam was a good friend. Ruth was vivacious, exciting, appealing. So because Sam was my friend, I stayed away. It was not easy when they were together, and harder in the last few months after he left. He helped keep her in the apartment, but it was a struggle for her. I did not call any of them.

  Perhaps I was a tiny bit proud. After all, neither did any of them phone me.

  I took a bath.

  When the power came back on after only an hour and a half wait, I cooked some beef, mixed in what was left of the vegetables, and ate a little more. I’d had my creative breather and it resulted with my lights out.

  I sat in the kitchen, looking at the photo of the road where the Puenes had been ambushed, looking for anything I had missed. There was nothing.

  I took the file into the living room to read it yet again there, plugged in my cell phone to charge it, and the power went off again.

  11

  The next morning when I woke, it did not take long to realize I liked it better asleep.

  I showered, ate, dressed, preoccupied by The Case. Obsession in some work can be bad. For Homicide, it was required, because only total focusing can get the murderer in cuffs.

  Freda was visiting her mother, I had not spoken with her for a while, but it occurred to me, as I put on my holster, checked my pistol and slipped it in, that I was not thinking of calling her now. I told myself it was because of that total focusing thing.

  My cell phone had partly charged overnight. Taking it off the charger was the last thing I did before I left the apartment, carrying a fresh case of water bottles for day that would be hotter than usual. As I walked to my car to drive to work, my neighbor backed out of the parking area, moving in front of me. I’ve mentioned her before: Ruth Amanyie, the attractive divorced wife of Sam Inome, a friend and colleague. As usual, she was first driving her daughter to school before going to her sewing shop.

  Sam Inome was an ex-cop. There was not a lot of yelling the night he moved out. He was just gone. She did not miss him, even their daughter didn’t seem upset he was no longer in the house. It bothered me, what must have gone on inside that apartment next door between my friend and his family.

  Because Sam and I were friends, I kept my distance. And by that I include from Ruth. And then as my affair—no, I must mean my relationship—with Freda began to cool, and Sam had been gone quite a while, I opened myself to the heat in my heart for Ruth. Not that I quite knew what I was doing. It was more I was in a river and the current pulled me along towards a very inviting island.

  She drove a good Nissan Primera which embarrassed my much older Peugeot. We had begun chatting in the morning before I was suspended, our morning routines matched up conveniently. She asked for advice about getting a Tokumbo car—a used car--few people I know can afford new.

  Ruth’s was nine years old with high mileage and a higher need for repairs. My was almost eighteen years old, soon it would be able to vote. When we bought our cars they were still affordable, but then the Government banned the importation of cars older than eight years. Quickly enough even the prices of Tokumbo cars were driven out of reach, making us tired, it was no longer about scarcity of gas, or being over-priced when available. Getting a good used auto was no longer auto.

  Yes, I knew what was going on with Ruth, I was avoiding quite recognizing it undeniably, but then there I was that morning and she looked gracious behind the wheel, in her pink satin Buba with delicate embroidery. She was shorter and darker than Freda. I looked down into her eyes as she shifted into drive.

  Ruth was smart, funny, had some deep currents pulling her. She had not dated much such since Sam left. For many men, her daughter was a roadblock. Me? Her daughter was a charmer. And many men would be afraid of her. Ruth had divorced Sam. Women divorcing men, much less any divorce, was not common in Port Harcourt. In many ways, Ruth was one of a kind.

  “Good morning, Uncle Tammy” Celina said, leaning over in the passenger seat. A lively six-year-old, she was a small version of her mother.

  “Morning, angel. Off to school?”

  “Yes, Uncle.” She climbed onto her mother’s lap. Mom did not seem to mind at all. And the charming tyke blurted out, “Uncle Tammy is a stubborn handsome man!”

  Funny what children can blurt out. From what they have overheard.

  Ruth, for the first time, looked awkward. She laughed but looked in a most determined way at her daughter. “Honey, please keep quiet.”

  Tough for Ruth. Celina wasn’t a child who stayed quiet.

  “Really?” I asked her. “Stubborn? Handsome? Where did you hear that?”

  “I didn’t say it first,” she said, shooting a coy look at her mother.

  Ruth cleared her throat, knowing this was not the best route. “Don’t worry, Mr. Detective. Neither of us thinks you are handsome. She heard a rumor. An ugly rumor.”

  “Why would a rumor about me be ugly?” I knew I was flirting but not what I was doing. I shouldn’t. But she flirted but seemed satisfied with that. It takes two.

  “You acknowledge I am a Detective. Using my professional powers, I deduce she heard this rumor somewhere close to home. No one at school would have said it. Tell me. Is the rumor that’s ugly or me?”

  “I have been sworn to secrecy.” She revved her engine a little.

  I grinned. “Celina, be a good girl at school.”

  “Why just at school?”

  The kid would probably grow up to be a lawyer.

  Ruth nodded and I watched them drive away. I got into my Peugeot, putting the new case of water bottles on the passenger seat. Yesterday was hot, today would be hotter, tomorrow worse. At this time of year, with the heat, coupled with the elections, Nigeria is hot. I always had water ready.

  I should not flirt with Ruth if I was sort of attached to Freda. Hmm. Sort of. I was qualifying my relationship with her, and what did that say? I had told her about Ruth and Sam, but not about my growing feelings. Telling her did not feel right, not telling her felt equally wrong.

  Freda was pursuing me, not her. She was pursuing me like a detective, except I had not murdered anyone.

  Freda was slim and what anyone would call classy. Ruth was what anyone would call a woman. Full and chunky, but I admired more than her sexuality.

  Ruth had a remarkable insight into attitudes. She picked up on cues which went unnoticed by most people. She had a real eye for facial expressions and stance. The woman should have been a detective. Worse, when we were together, she always seemed a couple of steps ahead of me. Sometimes I felt like a child, led by her hand.

  And being led sometimes was a relief. I did not have to be in charge of anything, responsible for anything. I could relax with Ruth, while with Freda I somehow always felt on guard. I liked being able to relax instead of being wary.

  Perhaps you are wondering if our meetings were limited to morning hello’s.

  Perhaps the reader is detecting the detective.

  Very well. Since you have figured it out, but don’t tell anyone: yes, we’ve been to bed. Once. She was shy and aggressive and it never happened again. We did not talk about it but we both knew it was too soon.

  That was three months ago.

  Tensions had been building since, and they were nice tensions.

  Love Armageddon was looming.

  It would be Armageddon because it was not just me, Freda and Ruth.

  It was me, Freda, Ruth and my mother.

  Mom was on Ruth’s side. She had met Ruth a few times when she came over with home cooking I could never resist.

  And mom was, well, a force.

  For a month now she’d been nagging her Hardboiled Detective Son. “Tamuno, that is a nice lady living next door” was subtle. Less subtle, “It is not nice yo
u are not married” followed inevitably by “I am waiting for grandchildren”. I would only tell soon. But soon never came.

  Mom liked Ruth, mom liked Celina. And mom liked Ruth being from Ijaw. Mom came from Ijaw. She even knew Ruth’s sister from the township, and thought her family was fine. When mom found that out, there was no stopping her. She began her not very subtle campaign the next time she saw me.

  I had an earlier girlfriend, Sophie. Our different goals pulled as apart, different currents in the river. At the river’s split she went East, I West. But mom was convinced it was all Sophie’s fault, and I had nothing to do with it.

  Now Freda was also a loser in mom’s eyes, actually pretty much from day one. The first time they met, Freda tried her charms on mom. Good luck. She asked mom for some of her recipes, so she could cook them for me. Bad idea. Mom said certainly, and that was the last of that. It was her obvious push to ‘hook’ me.

  And, of course, “Freda is not one of us.”

  You’d think in these modern times people can have a relationship with someone from a different tribe. That these days such people even marry. And they can, if neither is the child of my mother.

  Mom is traditional. I would not have her any other way, probably because I could not have her any other way. Tribal and home area connections run deep. In the new generations, love ran deeper.

  Until love ran up against mom.

  Mom did not like Freda herself, but could have got past that. Certainly Freda would have produced a grandchild, and quickly. That was a real plus. But the unforgivable sin was that she was not from our tribe.

  We were Ijaw. Freda was Ibibio.

  Mom cared less that Freda’s family was high ranking. Her mom was a beautiful princess from Akwa Ibom, charming. These days she was in her late fifties. A lawyer, she handled her own divorce from Freda’s father when Freda was still a baby. Her mother refused to remarry and raised Freda by herself.

  She reminded me of Ruth.