Adimchinma Ibe - Treachery in the Yard

Those nice eyes grew wider. “Last seen?”

“Running from an explosion. What business is he in?”

She was shocked or at least appeared shocked. “I don’t see how that can be,” she said slowly, as if she did not believe it herself, and was trotting out the words on a trial run to see if we believed it.

I was getting the impression she would not tell me what business he was in-or perhaps she did not know. “Does he have a gun? Weapons? Explosives?”

“No. No. Why would he? We’ve been together three years. No.”

“You were asked what business he’s in,” Femi said, trying to sound tough.

She sighed. “He’s a businessman. He invests.”

“In what?” I asked.

“In anything that brings him money. He does not talk about it much, so I don’t ask. Trade secrets, he says.”

Time to pressure her. “We’re wasting time. His time. He’s in trouble. We don’t know exactly what he did but he was at the scene and it does not look good. Some people want him dead. Where is he? Tell me or I’ll take you in.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Njemanze Plot 22. He rented it just last week.”

Njemanze was expensive. Was he already spending the money he had earned yesterday? I had what I wanted, unless she’d fed us a line. We got up to leave.

“Please don’t hurt him,” she said, hands clasped in front of her.

“You’ve just helped him,” was all I told her.

It did not take long to drive to Njemanze, near Elechi Beach.

Angus Sekibo’s bungalow was dead quiet. I decided not to bother with niceties like a warrant. A credit card in the door slipped the lock, and we went in. It was dark inside. Dark and quiet. Until I heard a scraping sound, coming from what was probably a bedroom. The doorway was open; a faint light shone from inside. I took my pistol from its holster as we approached. When we got to the open doorway, a tall, heavy man lunged at us from inside the room. He had a bandage around his ear. Our boy. He tried to grab my gun but never got close because I kicked him in the crotch.

Kicking an attacking suspect in the crotch is basic police technique all over the world.

He went down and Femi was on top of him as he hit the floor, rapping his gun across the back of the man’s head for good luck. Our friend was unconscious but we cuffed him anyway. I stole a look at him as I took out my cell. He was bearded, tall, young, heavy-set, hardened by his years on the streets of Port Harcourt.

I got through to the desk sergeant, told him who I was, where we were, and what we had. Given we had no warrant, I fabricated a little and said he opened the front door and attacked us. It was true, except for moving the bedroom door about twenty feet forward. The suspect, being unconscious, did not dispute my account.

While I stood over the man, Femi went into the kitchen, got a glass of water, came back, and splashed it onto the suspect’s head. He grunted and slowly came to. I jacked him up and pushed him against the wall. “Who paid you to bomb Okpara?”

“I want my lawyer.” Now there was a surprise.

“You don’t have a lawyer.”

“Well, I want one.”

“You’ll want your balls in a minute. Shut up.”

“I’m not telling you a thing. Kiss my fat ass.”

Instead of kissing his fat ass, I gripped his neck and squeezed. In a moment, he was gasping for breath, cuffed hands flailing uselessly behind him. When I dropped him roughly into a wooden chair, he slumped on his left side and grunted like a wounded animal. As far as I was concerned he was an animal. An animal who tried to kill. An animal who would not talk.

Femi watched him sit in the chair and cough while I got two cold beers from his fridge. His taste in beer was good. I was impressed. Femi and I had nice cold ones, waiting for our colleagues to arrive. And arrive they did, within about fifteen minutes, four of them.

I stepped forward to greet them. “Detectives Peterside, Adegbola. Homicide.”

“Are you here officially?” Sergeant Opuwari, the lead officer, asked as he walked up to us and shook hands.

“He’s a suspect in the Okpara bombing.”

“Does he want a lawyer?” Opuwari asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

Opuwari grinned.

It was a jolly ride down to the Central Police Station of Njemanze. The officers at the Njemanze Police post had to put up with almost no resources and a crumbling, mosquito-infested station that had been half demolished to put up a block of fancy shops. They still did their work, though. I respected them.

Angus Sekibo was booked, allowed his one phone call, then put in a holding cell. After letting him sit for a while, I figured he was ready and approached Opuwari to interview him.

“You know I can’t do that. His lawyer is not here yet.”

“You want to tell Okpara you held up the interrogation of the guy who put him in the hospital and killed several of his people? Do you think this is the only attempt on Okpara we’ll see? What if there’s another one on the stove right now?”

“Will you take complete responsibility for interviewing him without his lawyer present?”

I nodded, and that let him off the hook. He watched as Femi and I walked into the holding cell. “When his lawyer comes, I’ll make certain he fills out all the appropriate forms I can find, in triplicate, before he’s allowed to see his client.”

We police like to work together.

Our suspect was seated at a table, hands cuffed behind his back, looking suitably unhappy. His crotch probably still hurt, poor guy. I walked up to him and sat down. Femi stood, glaring at our boy for good effect.

Our boy glared back.

He was waiting for his lawyer, but Opuwari would guarantee he’d wait until we were done.

“You won’t be looking so confident in a while,” I told him. “Fifteen years for attempted murder. Another seven for possession of controlled substances. Then there’s the vicious attack on me and my partner.”

He said nothing.

“Talk to me now. Make a deal; it’ll go easy on you. I want the big guy, not you.”

I wanted them all, of course, and he knew it. “Go to hell. I’m telling you nothing. My lawyer will be here any minute. You don’t scare me.”

“Your lawyer will be held up. Maybe in traffic. I don’t think he’ll be seeing you for quite some time, Angus.” He spat at me and Femi punched him in the gut. When Femi hit him, I felt a twinge of not guilt exactly, but something. . But Meathead had killed at least two people with the bomb and probably would’ve killed us if he’d gotten the chance. “I want a name.”

It took him a while to get his breath. “You get nothing from me.”

I did not think I would, but I had to try. “Oh? How about some hair?” Femi grabbed a handful and yanked. Our suspect did not make a nice sound.

The door to the room opened and Sergeant Opuwari put his head in.

“Detective. Captain Davies wants you. In his office. Now.” His face told me Angus’s lawyer was here.

I nodded. I wouldn’t get anything from Angus anyway. He was more scared of his employer than he was of the police. Femi and I left him in the interrogation room and went down the hall.

When I walked into Captain Davies’s office, Angus’s lawyer was sitting there comfortably, a young man in a black suit, a white shirt, and a thin tie. I pretended to ignore him. “I heard you wanted to see me, captain.”

“Detective, what’s this talk about assassination? Why are you in my district?” The captain was direct enough. Direct enough for me to wonder if the lawyer had already paid him off, especially asking such questions in front of Mr. Nicely Dressed Lawyer. I wouldn’t mind a suit like the one he was wearing, but my police salary was out of its league. He introduced himself, and I learned that he was from Osamu and Associates. Someone from Osamu’s office was representing Angus?