Page 51 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Road Kill

think it certainly is in your interest—professionally, I mean—to
uncover the truth. You may as well know that I suspect foul play.
Don’t worry, you’re in the clear: I know you were at home when Sally
Furth died.”
I felt like giving her a sarcastic vote of thanks, but it would have
been brushed aside as irrelevant. Her conversation was taking an
unsettling turn, however. If an American were murdered, then an
American might be the murderer. That brought me back to the
present, as we crossed the Route de Nyofolo.
“Okay, I get it. You want to question some people at that party,
and you need me as cover. I guess we can find some way to do that
without being too obvious. But what does Coulibaly think? Does he
approve of what you’re doing?”
“He saw what I saw. I will tell you this in confidence: Sally had to
have been killed intentionally. Whoever knocked her off the moped
came back to finish the job. The tread marks are unambiguous in that
regard. Again, we were lucky it didn’t rain again. My counterpart
already canvassed the neighborhood for witnesses, but nobody heard
or saw anything—or so they said. He is willing to let me look for the
culprit among my own people for a few days. Meanwhile, he will try
to find out what he can, based on the cast we hope to make
tomorrow, but he is aware of the diplomatic implications. If our
government doesn’t press him, and he comes up with nothing, then
the case will be closed: death by misadventure.”
The last phrase came from her lips with a bitter emphasis. I
realized she had made me part of a de facto team, none of whose
members would be well-advised to let her down. Labelle did not
enjoy her limited jurisdiction; that was clear. We made one last turn
and came upon the USAID house, glowing in the desert night like a
little Las Vegas. The old gardien was still at his post, smoking and
talking with yet another dealer in artifacts of dubious provenance.
Perhaps, I thought uncharitably, the bright lights around the
foreigners’ villas attracted them like moths.
“What we need to do,” said Labelle, as we got out of the car, “is
find out what we can without giving too much away. You can tell
anyone we meet that Sally Furth is dead. Then, if it seems necessary,
introduce me as another Peace Corps volunteer who is trying to

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