A Death in the Family (23 page)

For a moment Kubu stood in astonishment, then he retreated to the sidewalk. I'll try for another couple of minutes, Kubu thought, then I'll go inside and warm up. As luck would have it, two cabs stopped to disgorge a family—mother and three kids in one; father and two kids in the other. All the kids must have been under the age of ten, Kubu thought. How do the parents cope?

Kubu stepped forward and guarded the door of the first cab until all had alighted. Then he climbed in, enjoying a blast of hot air. “Big and Tall on Sixth Avenue between Fifty-Second and Fifty-Third,” he said, feeling quite sophisticated. He leaned back and gazed in awe at the crush of people on the sidewalk and what appeared to be a perpetual road jam on the street. How do people do it? he wondered. No space to swing a cat.

*   *   *

AN HOUR AND
a half later, Kubu returned to the hotel sporting an enormous winter coat that felt like something an explorer would wear to the North Pole and a scarf wound many times around his neck, mouth, and nose. He was exhausted. He was carrying two shopping bags from Big and Tall. One contained his thin coat; the other, two pairs of slacks that had fitted off the shelf, something that never happened in Gaborone, and two dressy casual shirts in strong colors. Everything was relatively cheap and well made, and they had given him a special 10 percent discount because it was his first time in New York City. Probably added 20 percent before giving me the discount, he decided. But nevertheless, the shopping was amazing—the service was good, and nobody questioned his credit card from Botswana.

“Are there any messages for me?” Kubu asked the receptionist as he headed for the elevator.

“You'll have to check your phone, sir. The voice mail is all automated.”

Kubu nodded his thanks.

As he went up in the elevator, he wondered whether Mabaku would authorize the expenditure for a real winter coat. He'd tell the director that he would have frozen to death had he not bought one. Then he grimaced as he thought what Mabaku's response would be.

When he reached his room, he was excited to see the message light flashing. It took him a few moments to work out how to retrieve the message and, when he did, was disappointed to hear Mabaku's voice. “I thought you would want to know that the chief in Shoshong was killed by a shot in the back with a small-caliber bullet. Definitely not from the police. Make sure you don't screw up my speech.”

Kubu was surprised at the message. It meant that someone at the riot wanted the chief dead, no matter what. It wasn't just a consequence of unruly behavior. He wondered what the implications were.

He tried to find a second message but was disappointed that there were no more. He wondered if Newsom had received his message. So he made himself a cup of tea and phoned the hotel reception for a recommendation for a good steakhouse, not too far away and not too expensive.

“Del Frisco's,” came the immediate reply. “Sixth Avenue at Forty-Ninth. All cabbies know it.”

“Thank you. Will I need to make a reservation?”

“I'll do that. How many people for what time?”

I'm sure people in a city like New York eat late, Kubu thought. “How about eight o'clock, just for myself.”

“I'll take care of that, sir. I'll call back if there's any problem.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

To kill the time before dinner, Kubu turned on the TV. For the next hour he flicked through the channels, amazed at how difficult it was to find anything worth watching, despite there being a seemingly infinite number of stations. When he did find something that caught his interest, the program was interrupted every few minutes by advertisements. No wonder America is a consumer nation, he thought. I'm sure people buy stuff in the hopes that the ads will go away!

Eventually, he turned the TV off and lay down for another brief power nap—being careful to make sure his alarm was properly set.

*   *   *

THIS TIME, KUBU
had little difficulty hailing a cab, and he arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. Fortunately, they were able to seat him immediately on the third floor. He gazed around at the wooded opulence. Three tiers of dining, chandeliers, thousands of bottles of wine, and immense windows with a view onto the city's skyscrapers. Amazing, he thought. Probably more people lived in one of those buildings than lived in the whole of Gaborone.

He perused the immense drinks list, wincing at the prices. He'd planned to limit himself to two glasses of wine, but the sight of exotic cocktails made him change his mind. One cocktail and one glass of wine, he thought.

He ordered a pomegranate martini and a glass of a California Cabernet Sauvignon that he'd never heard of to enjoy with his steak. About 140 pula for the martini and 100 pula for a glass of wine! He could get a bottle of a decent South African for that price. Some of these bottles were over $1,000! He couldn't imagine that they were really worth it. He did a quick calculation: $1,000 was equal to about 10,000 pula. For that, he could buy between sixty and eighty good South African reds. He shook his head. Why would anyone spend that sort of money for only one bottle, when they could have so many?

Then he turned to the menu. His mouth watered at the pictures and descriptions, even though he didn't understand some of it. Tchoupitoulas sauce? Transmontanous caviar? Maque choux corn? Chateau potatoes? Fortunately, the steak dishes needed no elaboration, and he understood all of them except for the wagyu longbone, which anyway was out of his price range at $95, even though it was for thirty-two ounces. He scratched his head. What was thirty-two ounces in real measurements? I think it's about a kilogram, he thought. That's a lot!

Eventually, he made up his mind. “I've never had oysters before,” he told the waiter. “So I'd like to have them for a starter. On the half shell. Then I'll have the porterhouse—medium rare, please.”

“Anything on the side, sir?”

“I'm not sure I know what that means?”

“You know, like vegetables.”

“The steak doesn't come with vegetables?” Kubu asked.

“No, sir. They're extra.”

Kubu glanced quickly at the menu again and ordered asparagus and sautéed mushrooms. As the waiter walked away, Kubu added up what this was going to cost. A martini and a glass of wine—$30. Oysters—$20. Porterhouse—$60. Veggies—$29. And probably $15 for dessert and coffee. Total about $155 before the tip. That was 20 percent, if the hotel receptionist was to be believed—another $30. He shook his head. This was going to cost him nearly 2,000 pula. For one meal!

The glimmer of a smile crossed his face. It wasn't going to cost
him
2,000 pula. It was going to cost Director Mabaku 2,000 pula. “Serves him right for sending me away when I should be trying to find my father's murderer,” he said out loud.

That thought immediately soured the evening. He'd put Wilmon's death out of his mind from the moment he'd boarded the South African Airways flight in Johannesburg. On arriving in New York, he'd been so overwhelmed by the whole environment—its size, its difference, its reputation—that he hadn't thought about it then either. But now, it insinuated itself once again into his head, and he knew it would be difficult to dislodge. Suddenly, the food didn't sound as appetizing as it had a few minutes earlier, and he didn't feel as hungry.

Well, it's too late to do anything about the order, he thought, so I'll have to do the best I can. That's too bad. I was looking forward to eating the director's budget.

*   *   *

WHEN KUBU LEFT
the restaurant, it was snowing. He decided to walk at least part of the way back to his hotel so he could tell Tumi and Nono that he had walked in snow. Because he knew the kids wouldn't believe him, he needed a picture of the snowflakes coming down around him, so he gave a passerby his phone to take a photo. But he didn't last long in the cold and only managed one block before he started to shiver. He hailed a cab, which to his amazement stopped immediately, and ten minutes later, he pushed his way through the revolving doors of his hotel.

“Enjoy your meal?” the receptionist asked.

“Thank you. It was a very good recommendation. The food was delicious.”

“Couldn't finish it, though?”

Kubu looked chagrined. “No. I ordered the porterhouse but only managed about half. It's a good thing they have doggie bags. Would you like to have it? I won't have a chance to eat it.”

The receptionist thanked him but declined.

“Thank you. Good night,” Kubu said as he stepped into the elevator. He pressed the button and watched the doors close.

A few minutes later, he opened the door to his minute bedroom and immediately checked the phone. The message light was not flashing.

Damn, Kubu thought. I wonder if I'll ever hear from Newsom.

He undressed, put on his pajamas, and climbed into bed. He set his alarm for seven and phoned reception for a backup wake-up call. He had to be at the Grand Hyatt at nine for the conference opening session and didn't want to be late.

I hope I can get to sleep, he thought. I've so many things on my mind.

But he needn't have worried. He was asleep in seconds, once again filling the room with his snores.

 

CHAPTER 40

Mabaku stared across the table at Julius Koma. Samantha was sitting to one side, taking notes.

Julius broke the silence. “I'm pleased to hear nine people have been arrested for the deaths of my father and the elders at the
kgotla
.”

“And for the murder of the police constables,” Mabaku added.

Julius shrugged that off. “Do you think that's everyone involved?”

“Everyone? Certainly not. There were more than nine rioters. But these have been identified by witnesses as being in the front wave.”

Julius nodded. “Yes, well, as long as you have the leaders, we can move on. I want to get the chief issue sorted out quickly. The commissioner has been great. Having that constable with me at the meetings with the elders was very helpful. Of course, I said it was for our protection after the riots, but it got the message across. We need to get my appointment settled and do the deal with the mine so the men will have jobs. Then everything will get back to normal.”

Mabaku digested that. “It's not quite that simple,” he said at last. “Some issues have come up during our investigation that don't fit.” He paused. “Two of the suspects have claimed that they received money to stir up trouble at the
kgotla
if the chief ruled against the mine. Do you know anything about that?”

“Did they say I gave them money? It's a fucking lie! I told people to make their voices heard, not to attack the elders!” Julius thumped his fist on Mabaku's table.

Mabaku shook his head. “They didn't say it was you. They said it was a man they didn't recognize, who said he worked for the Konshua Mine. Do you think the mine was behind it?”

“No, I don't. The mine has always been straight with us. The two men are murderers, Director. They're trying to shift the blame. What they say is worth nothing!”

Mabaku opened a folder and flipped through some pictures as he went on talking. “At least five people beat Mabula Tongwe, the first elder attacked. We've arrested three of the men, and we're still trying to identify the others. We know who used a knobkierie to kill Amos Moloi, the second elder, and we'll charge him with murder. Two of the others in custody will testify to that in exchange for reduced sentences. It seems the third elder there, Potter Masole, died of a heart attack, so probably we won't take that any further.” He looked up at Julius and waited.

“What about my father?” Joshua asked when it was evident Mabaku wasn't going to continue.

In response, the director shoved a photo enlargement across the table. It was from a bystander's cell phone. Mabaku marveled that people would snap pictures in the middle of a riot with killings taking place, but that's what they'd done. And it had helped the police a great deal.

Julius picked up the enlargement and frowned. “I've looked at dozens of these pictures already, Director Mabaku. They're all taken from behind so they show the rioters' backs. What use is that?”

“We know what clothes they were wearing, and that's evidence supporting—or, in a few cases, contradicting—what witnesses have told us. And once we told the suspects we had pictures…” He shrugged.

“Yes, very clever. So why did you ask me to come here? I've told you everything I can already, and I'm very busy.”

“You asked me about the murder of your father.” Mabaku tapped a folder on his desk. “I have here a report from our pathologist on the cause of his death. He was beaten on the head, shoulders, and arms, resulting in trauma that would probably have been fatal.” He paused for effect. “But he was also shot, and the bullet is probably what killed him.”

Julius leaned forward. “Shot? That's impossible.” After a moment he added, “It must've been a stray bullet from the police guns. Shooting into the crowd was what started the riot in the first place! There must be an investigation into that.”

“The bullet wasn't from a police weapon,” Mabaku said. “It was the wrong caliber.”

Julius grabbed the picture again and studied it for a few seconds, looking upset. “How do you explain it then?”

“I was hoping you'd be able to help with that.”

“Me? What would I know about it?”

Mabaku shuffled his documents. “This is your statement, Rra Koma. You say that you grabbed your father, jumped off the stage, and tried to escape. Is that right?” Julius nodded. “Were you holding on to your father, or were you behind him?”

Julius hesitated. “I was a bit behind him, I think. It all happened so fast.”