THIRTY-TWO

May 18

Drumming his fingers on his desk, Sowah said, “Our job is to find Gordon Tilson, so let’s begin. First, Emma, we need to trace Gordon’s path starting with the Kempinski Hotel. That’s where you’ll go this morning. You’ll speak to the manager and anyone else who saw or encountered Mr. Tilson. You should check the restaurants there, the security guys, and so on. Call me to brief me and don’t leave the hotel until we’ve discussed it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep a record of your Uber charges so I can reimburse you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Two security guards stood on duty at the gated entrance of the Kempinski Hotel, which looked like a fortress. Emma went in the pedestrian entrance and nodded at the guards, who responded with a look of only passing interest. She had no backpack or object of potential suspicion. On the inside of the gate, the wide driveway branched like a “Y” to a large parking structure on the right and to the left around the decorative fountain in front of the hotel. Several black limousines stood in a neat line to one side of the entrance. Emma raised her eyebrows at the sight of several uniformed police officers clustered around two marked vans. Armored vehicles belonging to the Panther Unit’s SWAT team were stationed in a cul-de-sac off the driveway directly opposite the hotel. Emma noticed a sniper in black keeping a lookout from the roof.

Emma gave all this a wide berth as she approached the entrance, but she turned as someone called out her name. Standing beside one of the intimidating vehicles, a heavily armed SWAT guy was waving at her. “Me?” she asked by gesture. He nodded. Emma wondered if she’d done something wrong, so it was with some tentativeness that she walked over where the man stood with two similarly black-clad colleagues. She didn’t recognize any of them.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

She squinted at him. “I don’t think so.”

“We should change that, then,” he said. He was in his early thirties, and absurdly handsome, Emma thought. She tried not to melt somewhat under the deep gaze of his smoky, long-lashed eyes.

“Why, you know me?” she asked.

“I’ve seen you at CID before. I’m Dazz Nunoo. And you?”

“Emma Djan. But I’m not with CID anymore.”

“Ah, okay. You left us?”

“Yes. Now I work for Sowah Private Investigators.”

He nodded. “Nice. How is it over there?”

“I really like it.”

Dazz gestured at his companions. “Meet my mates—Edwin and Courage.”

Edwin was tall, angular, and unsmiling. Courage was heavyset and more jovial in appearance. Must be Ewe, Emma thought. They loved names like Grace, Charity, Marvelous, Hope, Peace, and so on. She sized Courage up. Not bad looking, really. He wore his weight well.

“How long have you been with the SWAT?” Emma asked Dazz.

“Like three years.”

“What’s going on today?” Emma asked, looking around. “All these police guys and SWAT?”

“President of Gabon arriving for some kind of international conference,” Dazz explained. “And what brings you here too?”

“We have a case—a missing American man.”

“Oh?” Dazz said with mild interest. “Name?”

“Gordon Tilson. Ring any bells?”

Dazz turned the corners of his mouth down and shook his head. He looked at Courage and Edwin, who indicated the same.

“His son Derek has come down from the States looking for him,” Emma continued. “On arrival in Ghana, Gordon first checked into Kempinski, so that’s why I’m here.”

“I see,” Dazz said, nodding. “If I hear anything, I’ll text you.” He got his phone out. “What’s your number?”

He tapped it in with his thumbs as Emma recited it. Courage got out his own phone and leaned over to see the number on Dazz’s, but Dazz moved it out of reach. “Chaley, why? Mind your own business.”

“Ah, but I want to also text her in case I get information,” Courage said in annoyance. “Are you the only police officer in Ghana or what? Let me get the number.”

“Okay, then ask Miss Djan for permission,” Dazz said with a wicked smile and a wink at Emma.

Courage looked at her. “Can I get it?”

Emma shrugged her shoulders and looked at Dazz. “Up to you.”

Dazz relented under Courage’s glare and read out Emma’s number to him.

“Where do you live?” Courage asked her.

“Madina,” Emma responded.

It was a sprawling town north of central Accra, just past the University of Ghana.

“Excuse me to say, but are you married?” Courage asked.

“No,” she said.

Dazz cocked an eyebrow at Courage. “But why are you so nosy?”

“You too, are you her father or what?” Courage snapped back, sucking his teeth. He returned to Emma. “You should be expecting my call. Very soon.”

“All right,” she said, her voice neutral. A woman doesn’t show too much eagerness, after all.

“We won’t keep you any longer, Emma,” Dazz said. “Best of luck. Let’s keep in touch.”

“Bye,” Courage said, smiling at her.

Emma turned back to the hotel entrance, where she was obliged to go through a metal detector like everyone else. She wondered if the Gabon president would have to do the same.

Passing through automatic doors, Emma entered Kempinski’s gleaming lobby. Large works of art adorned the walls. In velvet and leather seats, dark-suited men and women sat meeting or texting on their mobiles. A tall, curvy woman in a scarlet Kempinski outfit went sailing by on stiletto heels.

Twenty-first century Ghana, Emma thought, trying not to be overly impressed by the size and opulence. She took a seat in one of the high-backed blue velvet chairs and did what everyone else was doing: checked her phone and looked important. While working at the Apple store, she had bought a few decent outfits, one of which she was wearing. She hoped she looked reasonably chic in this environment.

She scanned the lobby, aware that she was a little nervous. She was embarking on a case that felt bigger than anything she had tackled up till now. A just-arrived Delta Airlines crew was checking in at the front desk as the bellman took care of the luggage. Someone was rolling out a red carpet from the front entrance into the driveway, presumably for the Gabon president’s arrival. A group of officials who appeared to be the advance party were discussing logistics with the curvy woman in red and a Lebanese guy Emma thought was probably the manager on duty. Lebanese people in Ghana either managed places or owned them.

At a lectern on the other side of the lobby, a pretty young maître d’ in charcoal gray stood at the entrance to the outdoor Cedar Garden restaurant, where a few diners were having an early lunch. Emma rose and strolled over. “Good morning, madam,” she said amicably.

“Good morning,” the maître d’ replied, flashing even, white teeth. Her name badge said Zeneba.

“May I please have a look at the menu?”

“Certainly,” she said, handing Emma one.

“Thank you, Zeneba.” Emma looked through the items, relating to only one: vegetable soup for the price of thirty-six cedis, something that would cost one-sixth that much at a chop bar in Accra. “I’m meeting a friend here,” she said casually, “so I just wanted to get an idea of what you have.”

“Have you been here before?” Zeneba asked.

“No, my first time, actually.” She looked at the entrance where the presidential preparations had begun to appear more pressing. “I’m a little worried because I thought my friend would have been here by now.”

“Maybe you can call him?” Zeneba suggested.

“I did try, but he’s not picking up,” Emma said, getting out her phone. “I was late myself, so I hope he hasn’t left.” She gave a little laugh. “You know these Americans; they can be a little impatient.”

Zeneba smiled, agreeing without agreeing.

“You’ve been here all this morning, right?” Emma asked.

“Yes please.”

“Maybe you might have seen him.” She brought up Gordon’s photo—supplied by Derek—on her Samsung screen and showed it to Zeneba. “Have you seen him, by any chance?”

“Oh!” Zeneba exclaimed. “That’s Mr. Gordon!”

“You know him?”

“But of course. I remember him well. He was here with us a couple of months ago. He came to Cedar Garden often. He said our hummus is the best he’s ever tasted.”

Emma hadn’t the vaguest notion what hummus was. “Oh, wonderful,” she said.

“You know,” Zeneba said, “some guests I always remember because of how friendly and nice they are. Mr. Gordon is one of those. He often used to get coffee in the mornings and sit over there reading the papers. Oh, a very nice gentleman. I thought he was going to stay longer, but it seems he had to check out earlier than expected.”

“Did he tell you why?”

Zeneba hesitated. “No, he didn’t, but it seemed sudden. Mr. Gordon was having dinner here one night when he got a call. He said, ‘who is this?’ Then after some few seconds, he got up and left without even finishing his meal. That’s the last I saw of him.”

“Ah, I see,” Emma said. “Let me text him again.” Emma tapped out a faux message, waited a short while, and then allowed her shoulders to sag. “What a shame. He can’t make it tonight.”

“Oh, so sorry!” Zeneba said, appearing truly disappointed.

“But it wasn’t all in vain,” Emma said, smiling sweetly. “We had a nice chat. Thank you.”

Emma got out of the hotel just before the presidential motorcade came blasting through the gate. On the phone, she said to Yemo Sowah, “Sir, it seems Mr. Tilson might have received a significant phone call one evening, and he left the hotel very shortly after that.” Emma described what Zeneba had told her.

“Maybe some kind of threat, anonymous or otherwise?” Sowah said. “If that’s the case, who might have threatened Tilson, and why?”