“What kind of accent?” I asked. “American? Something else?” I was pushing because I knew I’d never get a better, truer account than right now.
“He wasn’t from here,” she said. “Not American, I’m certain of that.”
“Nigerian? Did he sound like Daniel?”
“Maybe.” Her jaw clenched as she fought back the tears. “It’s hard to think straight. I’m sorry.”
“Anyone else here Nigerian?” I turned back toward the others. “I need someone with a Nigerian accent.”
One of the boys spoke up. “I’m sorry, Officer, but there’s no such thing,” He had a Jimi Hendrix ’fro and an open tuxedo shirt showing off his skinny chest and jewelry. “I speak Yoruban, for instance. There is also Igbo, and Haus
a. And dozens of other languages. I’m not sure it’s appropriate for you to suggest—”
“That’s it!” Karavi put a shaking hand on my arm. I noticed a few of the others in the party were nodding too. “That’s how the killer sounded. Just like him.”
Chapter 23
I WAS STILL at the nightclub murder scene around two in the morning, conducting interviews that had begun to blend one into another, when the cell in my trousers pocket rang. I figured it might be the Nigerian embassy and answered it right away.
“Alex Cross, Metro,” I said.
“Dad?”
Damon’s voice on my cell shocked me a little. At two in the morning, why wouldn’t it? What was up now?
“Day, what’s going on?” I asked my fourteen-year-old, who was away at school in Massachusetts.
“Uh . . . nothing really,” Damon said. I think my tone had taken him off guard. “I mean—I’ve been trying to call you all day. I’ve got some good news.”
I was relieved, but my pulse was still racing. “Okay, I need some good news. But what are you doing up so late?”
“I had to stay up. To catch you. I called home, talked to Nana. I didn’t want to call you on your cell.”
I took in a slow breath and walked over to the hall by the bathrooms, away from the crime scene techs. No matter the time, it was always good to hear Damon’s voice. I missed our talks, the boxing lessons I gave him, watching his basketball games. “What’s your news? Let me hear it.”
“Nana already knows, but I wanted to tell you myself. I made the varsity. As a freshman. That’s pretty good, right? Oh, and I got As on my midterms.”
“Listen to you—‘Oh, and I got As.’ Nice one-two, Damon. I guess you’re doing pretty good up there,” I said, and suddenly I found myself smiling.
It was weird to be having this conversation under neon lights in a hallway that smelled of liquor and death, but it was still great news. Cushing Academy’s sports and academic program had been a real draw for Damon. I knew how hard he’d been working to do well at both.
“Sir?” A uniform leaned her head into the hallway. “Nine-one-one dispatch for you?”
“Listen, Damon, can I call you later? Like in daylight, maybe?”
He laughed. “Sure, Dad. This is a big one, isn’t it? Your case at that club. I saw you online.”
“It is a big one,” I admitted. “But it’s still great to hear your voice. Any time. Get some sleep.”
“Yeah, I will. You get some sleep too.”
I hung up, feeling guilty. If this is what work meant—two a.m. conversations with my son—then I better make the work count. Dispatch relayed the call over to me, and I got the same woman from the Nigerian embassy as before. This time, though, her voice was thick with emotion.
“Detective, I’m sorry to tell you, but Ambassador and Mrs. Njoku were killed tonight. We’re quite in shock.”
I didn’t feel shocked, I felt sick. “When did it happen?” I asked her.
“We’re not entirely sure. Within the past few hours, I believe.”