The Missing American Page 25

  “Not at all,” Sowah said, waving it away.

  “Yes, I was working closely with Derek Tilson,” Damptey chimed in, “but he was too impatient.”

  Emma doubted that very much. In her judgment, Damptey was an inadequate police officer who wouldn’t hesitate to cover her poor performance with a lie, whether big or small.

  “And I understand you’ve arrested the gentleman, Mr. Yahya?” Sowah said.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Quaino said with an air of importance. “We found him in possession of the jacket he stole from the American man, and he’s now confessed to it.”

  “And you also suspect him of murdering Mr. Tilson?”

  “Yes please.”

  “But do you have physical evidence tying Yahya to Tilson’s death?”

  “Well, the jacket, sir—”

  “That ties Yahya to Mr. Tilson, not his death,” Sowah pointed out.

  “He will confess, sir,” Quaino said with conviction.

  “Just be sure it’s not under duress.”

  “Duress?”

  “Be sure it’s non-coercive because the law doesn’t take kindly to that. You see what I mean?”

  “Yes please. You are right. Thank you, sir.”

  “Well, good,” Sowah said, placing his hands on his thighs and looking at Emma. “Did you have anything you wanted to ask?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Emma said. “I think you’ve covered it very well.” They got up and so did Quaino and Damptey.

  “By the way,” Sowah said, as if by afterthought. “Is DCOP Laryea around?”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” Quaino said. “I haven’t seen him today.”

  “He’s a good man,” Sowah said. “He was also my mate in the good old days, along with your dad. I’ll stop by and say hello.”

  “He’s on the fifth floor. Will you like me to take you there, sir?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself at all, Mr. Quaino. We’ll find our way. Thank you so much.”

  Outside, Sowah waited until they were clear down the hall before commenting. “This is preposterous,” he said grimly. “They’ve made Yahya an easy scapegoat and bullied him into a confession. We’re not going to allow this to go any further.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  March 25, Accra, Ghana

  James Akrofi summoned the director-general. In Akrofi’s office at the top of the Police Headquarters, which was a separate entity from the CID building, he showed Andoh a letter of great concern.

  James Akrofi

  Inspector General of Police

  Ring Road East, Accra

  March 21

  Dear James Akrofi:

  On February 14th this year, I arrived in Ghana under the impression that I was to meet a woman I had been communicating with. I then discovered that such a woman did not exist and that during the months of January and February, I was being defrauded of thousands of dollars by an Internet romance scam, which I’m sure, you are familiar with.

  I filed a full and detailed statement with CID. My hope was that the person or persons responsible for scamming me and stealing my money would be apprehended. The case was assigned to a Detective Inspector Damptey. To say that I have been disappointed by her performance would be an understatement. After more than a month now, there appear to be no results whatsoever from what I even hesitate to call ‘an investigation,’ or if there have been, I have not been made aware. Every call I have ever made to DI Damptey has been met with evasion and prevarication. I get the impression that she has taken no interest whatsoever in my case.

  What I am learning from people like investigative reporter Sana Sana is that the lack of any meaningful investigation into Internet scams, of which mine is only one, is most likely due to the collusion of police officials themselves, including those in high position. More revelations in this regard are likely to be forthcoming, but the phrase, ‘name, shame, and jail’ does come to mind. I read in the media that President Bannerman has engaged you in his initiative to eradicate corruption. I sincerely hope the house you clean first will be yours.

  I was in Ghana decades ago while in the Peace Corps and I had a most engaging and fulfilling time, including meeting the Ghanaian woman who became my wife. It has been a tragic experience for me to observe the negative changes that have overcome this nation and turned it into one of greed and monetary gain at any cost. Along with a writer from the Washington Observer, I intend to write an extended piece about my experiences and incorporate, if possible, some of the names Mr. Sana will come up with in the next few months.

  Yours truly,

  Gordon Tilson

  Andoh was appalled. In the first place, there was something treacherous about people who went straight to the top with their complaints. Why hadn’t this man come to Andoh first? Secondly, the letter was full of outright hostile language.

  “Sir, this . . . this is ridiculous,” Andoh said. He looked at the letter again. “How dare this man? ‘I sincerely hope the house you clean first will be yours?’ It’s insulting. And what is he trying to do, threaten us by telling us he’s working with Sana Sana? And that he’ll be writing something in the what? Washington Observer?”

  Akrofi chose to disregard that for the moment. “Where is DI Damptey with the investigation?” he asked.

  “I have to get an update from her supervisor, DCS Quaino, but they have been questioning different sakawa boys, both in custody and on the street, to see if there’s a connection with the American man. It’s not true what he’s saying about Damptey not taking any interest.”

  “Was there any kind of personality clash between Tilson and Damptey, to your knowledge?”

  “No, sir. Not that I know of.”

  “All right, listen,” Akrofi said calmly. “This man, Tilson, needs to be checked. I don’t care who he thinks he is. The best way, in my opinion, is to invite him down to your office, have a courteous meeting with him and tell him you will make his case a priority, but for that to take place, he needs to cease and desist from all this nonsense. What he is doing here is not proper at all. If he wants to behave this way, he can go back to the US and find trouble there.”

  “Yes, sir, of course,” Andoh said. “On top of it all, this mess he finds himself in is all his own doing. What galls me is his collaboration with Sana Sana, who is probably encouraging him to behave in this arrogant manner.”

  Akrofi looked at his watch. “I have a meeting with President Bannerman.” He stood up. “As always, keep this discussion completely confidential, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The IGP stood up. “Bottom line, you need to stop this Tilson in his tracks. Quickly.”

  Back in his office, Andoh brooded. Regarding Gordon Tilson, he agreed with Akrofi on what needed to be done, but Andoh had not always seen eye to eye with the IGP. In such situations, however, the director-general had to hide his feelings and kowtow to his superior. That was just how police hierarchy worked, not to mention Ghanaian society. Andoh didn’t think Akrofi was much good, really. Take the issue of the Cybercrime Division as an example. It was more than nine months ago that Andoh had alerted the IGP to the dire need for more funding. What had Akrofi done? Nothing. In fact, he hadn’t even followed up with Andoh about it. Not a word.

  Besides the lack of faith in Akrofi’s professional effectiveness, Andoh harbored a well-hidden, years-long, personal grudge against the IGP. It sat stubbornly in his psyche like an immovable mass of unrefined cement. But Akrofi was completely unaware of this resentment and even more oblivious to its origin.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  March 25, Accra

  Josephine was getting off the phone after a long, trying conversation as James came in from work to find her in the bedroom lost in thought.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, stopping in the doorway.

  She looked up. “I was talking to one of
the administrators at Kwame’s care home, and she’s saying he’ll have to go to a higher level of care.”

  “Oh?” James came in, peeling off his jacket and loosening his tie. “What’s going on?”

  “His behavior has become more aggressive,” Josephine said glumly. “They don’t know exactly why, but they can’t handle him anymore.”

  “Where are they saying he should go?” James asked, sitting beside her.

  “There’s a couple of locations—she’ll send me the links so we can take a look.”

  “More expensive, I assume?”

  “Of course. When does anything get cheaper?”

  He put his arms around her, and they lay back on the bed. “It will be okay,” he said.

  “The finances?” she asked timorously.

  “Of course. You have nothing to worry about. We can manage it just fine.”

  She nodded, looking up at the ceiling. A tear ran from the corner of her eye down the side of her face. “I love that boy so much. I want only the best for him.”

  “And he will always get it,” James said, wiping the tear away. “Why are you so anxious?”

  “Because if President Bannerman loses power, I know you’ll be asked to leave your IGP post. And then all the perks we have right now will vanish.”

  “First of all,” James said, “Bannerman is not going to lose the election. He and the party are way ahead at the polls now that Evans-Aidoo is gone. Second, you act as if we’ll suddenly turn broke. I’m a lawyer, I’ll go back to practicing law in the private sector and we’ll have our other source of funds as well, so we’ll be okay, my love.”

  He kissed her on the cheek.

  “Have they made any headway with that?” she asked. “I mean in finding out who was responsible for Evans-Aidoo’s death?”

  “No,” James said, sitting up. “They have not. The BNI is heading up the investigation and as far as I’m concerned, they are a bunch of incompetents—except for a few of them.” He shook his head and got off the bed to undress. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Okay. Dinner will be ready by the time you get out.”

  Around 11 p.m., after they’d watched the late TV news together in bed, Josephine and James switched out their respective bedside lights and slipped under the covers. The air-conditioner was set at a comfortable level for the night.

  James always slept better than she did. Nine times out of ten, his breathing would settle into a light snore within a few minutes and he was away in dreamland long before she was. She slept on her side while he was always face up. She watched the silhouette of his profile against the faint light coming into the window from the garden lamps. She could tell he was wide awake instead of dozing off.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Hm?”

  “It’s my turn to ask what’s worrying you, because I know something is.”

  He heaved a sigh. “I received the strangest letter today from an American man in Ghana.”

  Josephine lifted her head slightly off the pillow. “A letter? About what?”

  “The gentleman is a victim of a Ghanaian Internet scam. He came here to meet the woman he thought he was talking to, and now that he’s discovered what a fool he’s been made of, he’s irate and trying to throw his weight around.”

  Josephine’s muscles tightened involuntarily. “What’s his name?”

  “Gordon Tilson.”

  Her stomach flipped and plunged. She was silent for a moment. “Well . . . but what did he say in the letter exactly?”

  James quoted it as faithfully as he could from memory. “I’ll show it to you tomorrow,” he added.

  Josephine lay very still. Then she said, “That is outrageous.”

  It disturbed her to no end that Gordon had written this letter. It felt like a personal assault, a cannon strike to the walls of her castle, where she was normally snug and secure. But at the same time, she realized she might have staved off this attack. At Second Cup, she had promised Gordon she would bring his situation to James and thereby, she hoped, get CID moving on the American’s case. This letter might not have ensued if she had done as promised. But she hadn’t, because during her meeting with Gordon at Second Cup, something had happened. The moment he launched into that line of questioning over whether top police officials were in cahoots with sakawa boys, her sympathetic attitude toward Gordon had evaporated. His giving credence to Sana Sana had added insult to injury. Had she overreacted? Perhaps. At any rate, now she certainly could not reveal to James that she knew Gordon, especially with the memory of the Washington tryst hanging over her head like a shroud of guilt.

  “I spoke to Alex Andoh about it,” James said, bringing her out of her thoughts. “He’ll take care of Mr. Tilson.”

  She looked at his silhouette again. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, with these things, it’s always good to start diplomatically,” he said.

  And then what? she wondered.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  June 8, Accra, Ghana

  Emma had an expanding lump of panic in her throat. It was almost 9 a.m. and, running late to the airport, she was afraid she would miss Derek. He would already be inside Terminal 3 beyond the passengers only sign. With an air of confidence, Emma flashed her Sowah PI Agency badge at the guard at the entrance. “CID detective,” she said. “Here to arrest a suspect.”

  He was confused for a second. “What? Heh! Wait!”

  “There’s no time,” Emma said over her shoulder. “I have to catch him before he boards.” She scanned the check-in areas ahead for Derek and spotted him at the Delta counter.

  Moving closer to the gate entry point to be sure she didn’t miss him, she waited for him to be done. As he walked up with one hand holding his travel documents and the other wheeling a spinner carry-on, he saw her, and his face lit up. “Emma!”

  “Hi, Derek. I was scared you had already gone in.”

  They embraced.

  “Thank you for everything,” he said in her ear. “You’ve been wonderful.”

  They were both teary as they separated and looked at each other.

  “You know you have my deepest condolences,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yes, I do. I can’t thank you enough.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I will keep working on this. It’s not over at all. Sowah and I will find who killed your father.”

  “I know you will,” he said.

  “Did they airlift him home?”

  “Yes, he arrived in DC yesterday and they’ll do the autopsy in the next few days. I’ll forward the report to your email.”

  “Please do.” She smiled sadly at him. “Will you ever come back to Ghana?”

  Derek sighed. “I’m not sure. It will take me some time to heal.”

  “I understand,” Emma said. “I would feel the same way. But please stay in touch, and if you ever return, be sure to look me up.”

  “I will.” He hesitated. “Emma, it’s possible the FBI will look into Dad’s death once he arrives in the States. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  “Good,” Emma said. “Thank you. Bye, Derek.”

  They hugged again briefly. Emma watched him going up the escalator to the gates, and then he disappeared. She wiped away the tears that had welled in her eyes. In another world, Derek would be her husband. Oh, well. She turned away to the terminal exit where the same guard she had encountered on the way in said sarcastically, “I see you made your arrest.”

  She blew him a kiss.

  SIXTY-SIX

  June 10, Washington, DC

  The second day after Derek’s return home, he was horrified at what he saw when he went to pay a visit to Cas. His bony frame was now beyond skeletal. Gordon’s death had deeply affected him, obviously, but Derek wondered if anything else was wrong. Cas was coughing co
ntinuously—a ghastly, phlegm-filled cough.

  “Should I take you to the ER?” Derek suggested.

  Cas shook his head, trying to get through another fit of hacking. “It’s just a cold,” he managed to get out. “What’s the doctor going to say? Rest, drink plenty of fluids.”

  “The results of Dad’s autopsy should be ready this week,” Derek said when Cas managed to quiet the paroxysms for a while.

  Derek was sitting opposite him in the sitting room. Outside, even before the official start of summer, DC’s heat and humidity were already brutal.

  Cas grabbed a handful of tissues and dabbed at his eyes. “It’s tough to lose a friend.” His voice quivered. He looked at Derek and smiled wanly. “And a father, of course.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Cas. This isn’t easy for either of us.”

  “I’m sorry, Derek. I’ve done an awful thing.”

  “How do you mean?”

  But Cas had doubled over in another fit, so violent that it sent him to the floor.

  “Cas?” Derek got to his feet. “Cas?”

  Cas tried to sit upright. “I shouldn’t have—”

  But there was no point his trying to talk any further. As the paroxysm worsened, he slumped forward with a kind of whimper, his face now ashen and lips slightly blue.

  “Oh, fuck,” Derek said.

  It had been a long wait outside in the ER waiting room at MedStar Georgetown University Hospital. Derek had called 911 and after getting to the hospital had to explain his relationship to Cas. They asked, did Cas have any next of kin?

  “You’re looking at him,” Derek said. “His wife’s in a nursing home with dementia, his only child hasn’t spoken to him in thirty years, and neither he nor I know where the hell she is. So whatever policies and procedures you have regarding next of kin, you better make this work.”

  For two hours, Derek had no idea what was going on in there. Staff came and went, people got called, patients went in and came out. Derek’s butt got so sore from sitting he had to get up and walk. He was numb with misery. His father dead, his father’s friend sick with only God knew what.