The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  Rose’s own eighteen-year-old son, Timothy, had autism. When he was born, Rose was living in Connecticut with her then husband, whom she later divorced. But at the time, Rose was thrown into the turbulence of learning how to manage an autistic child, and it wasn’t easy. When Rose had to return to Ghana some ten years ago to care for her own mother, she faced the harsh reality that there wasn’t a single institution that would care for Timothy at the level he had enjoyed in the US. On top of that, the stigma facing parents—especially a single mother like Rose—was severe. Rose knew she wasn’t the only mother suffering. There were others like her. That’s why she founded the Accra Autism Center.

  “Glad you’re here,” Rose said as Emma came in. “Kojo needs you.”

  Emma had a rapport with thirteen-year-old Kojo, officially the Center’s first autistic child (after Timothy) to register. Kojo’s mother, Abena, was Emma’s best friend and the conduit through which Emma had been introduced to autism and the Center. Thereafter, Emma became a regular volunteer. This afternoon, he was rocking, flapping his hands, wiggling his fingers, and grimacing, which meant he was in a moderately agitated state that might—or might not—deteriorate into a sensory meltdown.

  Emma eased Kojo away to the adjoining office, shutting the door behind her with a foot and moving to a corner of the room. She sat on the floor and he followed. It was quieter and darker in here than outside and Emma hoped decreasing visual and auditory stimulation would help. After about five minutes, he was less active, rocking only slightly, but his eyes were still far away, lost in that world of his that no one else could enter.

  “Better?” Emma said softly.

  She didn’t expect a verbal response because Kojo was nonverbal and had never uttered a sound beyond an indistinct moan. They sat quietly together awhile as Emma reflected that while Kojo and the other Autism Spectrum Disorder children at the center were blessed to have this safe place, they were but a tiny proportion of ASD Ghanaians in need. And Rose operated on a shoestring budget, depending on donations and volunteers. She seemed to be constantly on the verge of having to close down, but something or someone always came along to rescue her at the last minute. One of those saviors was Josephine Akrofi, the IGP’s wife. Mrs. Akrofi was the Center’s strongest patron.

  Kojo was much calmer now, so Emma took him back to the outer room.

  Rose looked at her with a smile. “I knew you could do it. He loves you, that boy.”

  After Kojo was settled on the floor with a picture book, Emma sat beside Rose at the table in the center of the room.

  “I have some exciting news,” Rose said. “I wanted to make sure it would happen first, and now it looks like it will.”

  “Oh, really! I can’t wait to hear.”

  “As you probably know,” Rose began, “there’s research suggesting that some autistic kids do well interacting with screen images. The topic is a little controversial, but some nonverbal children are able indicate their needs using mobile apps—like on a tablet, for example. And the ability to express themselves relieves them of a lot of frustration.”

  Emma nodded. “Yes, I’ve read something about that.”

  “So,” Rose said slowly, enjoying the suspense she was creating, “I asked Madame Akrofi if she could help the Center acquire a tablet we can try on some of our kids. Guess what? She did even better than that. She got us four tablets.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Emma exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

  “Yes, it is,” Rose said, elated. “So, what we plan is a ceremony later this week at which Mrs. Akrofi will be presenting us with the gifts. She’s arranging for some newspaper and TV press so that we can highlight the Center and use the opportunity for not only publicity, but education of the public as well.”

  “That will be great,” Emma said. “I’m eager to see what Kojo does with the tablets.”

  “Me too,” Rose said. Her demeanor changed to grave. “This year, we have to be very aggressive about raising funds. The lease on the property is up in fourteen months, and if I don’t pay the landlord, we’re going to be out.”

  For Emma and Rose, that would be an unthinkable catastrophe. What would Kojo and the other children do without Auntie Rose’s Autism Center?

  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?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  May 18

  At close of day, DI Doris Damptey still had the same backlog of cases as the beginning. The ragged files would remain stacked on her desk for the foreseeable future, and the pile would undoubtedly grow higher. It was like that at CID Headquarters. Cases lingered.

  Damptey had been with the Vehicle Fraud Division for a couple of years, and now the CID bosses had transferred her to the newish Cybercrime Division, CCD, the brainchild of the IGP in concert with President Bannerman. Damptey was part of the Ground Enforcement Team, GET, whose role was to make the physical arrests resulting from online detective work. Honestly, there hadn’t been that many. No one could pretend the CCD had been that active.

  Damptey had completed a couple of assignments on the old, slow laptop the CCD had provided. The office, with a desk each for her boss and herself, didn’t have much besides. An old photocopy machine, which was supposed to be a desktop model, sat squat on the floor in the corner of the room, not having worked in years. It had been a donation from the Dutch or Swiss or was it the Germans, but Damptey couldn’t remember if the stupid device had functioned even once. Sometimes the oburoni countries dumped old, worthless machines onto the third world, which accepted them with fawning smiles only to discover they didn’t work for more than a couple of months.

  The CCD was supposed to be focusing on several areas—credit card fraud, gold, timber, oil concessions, romance cons, and so o
n. But actual prosecutions were few and far between because the division didn’t have enough resources and training to stand up against the perpetrators’ wide network, particularly since most victims were abroad.

  The Bannerman government had also set up brand new anti-cybercrime channels with the US and Europe. That was smart, because it was one way to get funding for cyber training courses, a couple of which Damptey had attended. The farthest she had been was Abidjan in Côte d’Ivoire, but she was hoping one day she’d get to attend a seminar in Germany or the UK.

  She got to her feet and gathered up her handbag. Time to call it a day, even though she hadn’t gotten much done. She turned off the light in the office and stepped out into the warm equatorial dusk.

  She joined Nii Kwei at Nkrumah Circle chop bar, where he had already placed two orders—fufu and light soup for himself, boiled yam and nkontomire for Damptey.

  While they waited, they talked, Nii checking his phone every time a notification buzzed in. “You too, why?” Damptey snapped. “Can’t you leave that thing alone for even one minute?”

  Nii smiled. “Okay, Mummy,” he said, putting the phone away. He called Damptey “Mummy” in a teasing, half-affectionate way.

  “The American man you were getting money from—” she said.

  “You mean Mr. Gordon?”

  “Yes, him. His son is now here.”

  They paused while their dishes arrived.

  “What is he doing here?” Nii asked, washing and rinsing off his hands in the bowl of water provided.

  Damptey did the same. “He came to CID to report his father missing,” she said. “I took his statement.”

  Nii nodded and began eating with his fingers. “And so, what are you going to do, Mummy?”

  “You don’t need to worry,” she said, staring at him. “I will be delaying the investigation until he gets tired, and then he will go back to the States.”

  Nii said, “Why are you looking at me like that?”