Chapter 9: THE THIRD CASE

Weekend arrived before Karim could put in the kind of work he wanted to secure Musa Yahya’s mansion. The precinct was stretched thin, understaffed, and working on a budget so meager it was almost laughable. Every request for reinforcements was buried under red tape. Even with what little safeguard he managed to put in place, Karim remained unsettled. The entrepreneur—once a superintendent who had risen through the police ranks—wanted his party to be grand, but not intimidating. His orders were clear: a few security guards, nothing more. He did not want his guests, wealthy and powerful people who thrived on a sense

of entitlement, to feel watched or constrained.

It left Karim with a gnawing unease. He could already sense how the night might end, and that no matter what he did, Musa’s fate was sealed. It was as if the killer’s shadow had already been etched into

the walls of the man’s gaudy mansion. The best Karim could hope for was that Musa’s death might yield a clue—something tangible that would point him to the truth before the killer struck again. That was the cold calculation of his conscience: a man’s life might be the price of clarity.

The only positive was that their research had finally turned up a common thread. The three retired policemen—Commissioner Kola Ademola,

Commissioner Jude Ogbonna, and Superintendent

Musa Yahya—had all worked together on a case fifteen years ago. It had been labeled open-and-shut, closed so quickly it seemed almost rehearsed. But Karim, with his sharpened instinct, knew better.

Cases that wrapped themselves in neat bows often hid the ugliest truths. This one had been violent, brutal even. A robbery case that had involved a wealthy couple, according to the old files. The official story claimed the culprits were caught and “justice was served.” But as Karim read through the dry reports, he felt the corners of the pages whisper lies.

The party required him to bring a partner. He had resisted the thought of inviting Irene at first. Their

last encounter at his apartment had ended with

awkward silence, a moment of closeness he had pushed away. He assumed she despised him for it. But when he considered the short notice and his very limited options, his choice narrowed to one name. He sent her the message almost reluctantly, his thumb hovering over “send” longer than necessary.

To his surprise, she accepted. She hadn’t hesitated either. For all her irritation with him, Irene still bore the weight of unresolved feelings. Above everything—resentment, tension, even her father’s shadow over their relationship—something inside her still leaned toward him. She told herself it was duty, professionalism, but deep down she knew better.

The party was set in Musa’s mansion, a grotesque display of wealth in urban Lagos. The mansion sprawled across three acres of lush land, complete with an adjoining golf course. Imported palm trees stood like sentries by the driveway, their trunks wrapped in neon lighting. A fleet of polished foreign cars glittered under spotlights. Everything screamed excess. Five years of retirement, and the man had amassed wealth so staggering it mocked the modest pensions of ordinary policemen. Karim, watching from the window of his car as they pulled in, felt his stomach tighten. This wasn’t wealth—it was rot masquerading as success. He wondered if these people knew that there were others out there with nothing to their names.

Inside, the air was perfumed with money. Chandeliers spilled golden light onto Italian marble floors. Men in tailored suits and women in glittering gowns moved through the space like predators, each trying to outshine the next with jewelry, champagne, or tales of influence. Waiters in crisp uniforms drifted like shadows, balancing trays of hors

d’oeuvres that no one really ate. Conversations were loud, filled with false laughter. Karim felt suffocated by it all.

He looked at Irene beside him. She wore a simple black dress, elegant without being loud. Her presence carried quiet dignity, a stark contrast to the peacock display around them. But even her calm couldn’t

anchor him. The party bored him. The wealthy

oppressed one another with their luxuries, as if flaunting what they had was a weapon. Karim felt stagnant, trapped in a performance that disgusted him.

Eventually, he disengaged from Irene, murmuring something about needing air, though he didn’t leave the mansion. Instead, he roamed the hall, passing clusters of laughter and clinking glasses, his mind buzzing with suspicion. That was when he saw her.

The woman from the bar.

Time froze.

She stood across the room near the bar counter, her posture graceful, her eyes scanning the crowd with quiet amusement. The same mysterious beauty that had stolen his thoughts days ago. For a moment, Karim could only stare, his pulse quickening. When their eyes met, his chest tightened. He stumbled over his first words, clumsy, as he made his way toward her.

“Hi—I mean—good evening,” he muttered, his usual

calm fractured.

Her lips curved into a small smile. “Evening, Detective,” she said smoothly, as though she had known he would come.

That single word—Detective—startled him. He

hadn’t told her who he was. But before he could question it, she patted the bar stool beside her, and he found himself sitting, his nerves settling as if her presence commanded peace.

They talked like old friends, slipping into an ease he hadn’t known he craved. She was relaxed, her laughter light and unforced. Every gesture, every glance drew him deeper. Karim hung on her words, dotes spilling from his eyes even when he tried to hide it. She introduced herself at last: Jemima. The name suited her, soft yet resolute.

From across the hall, Irene watched. She had been looking for him, perhaps to make conversation,

perhaps just to anchor herself in the suffocating sea of elites. Instead, she found him at the bar, leaning close to Jemima, eyes bright with admiration. Irene’s chest tightened. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She turned away, pretending to study the chandeliers, but the sadness was sharp. She had been invisible to him tonight, unnoticed in the shadow of another.

Then, chaos.

A fire alarm blared suddenly, its shrill cry slicing through music and conversation. Guests screamed, clutching pearls and briefcases. In the next breath, thick white clouds hissed from canisters—tear gas filling the room. Confusion erupted. People stumbled

and coughed, heels clattering, suits dragging across marble as they fought toward exits.

Karim’s instincts surged. He grabbed Jemima’s arm, pulling her through the crowd. “This way!” he shouted above the panic, guiding her toward the nearest door. She leaned into him, trusting, her perfume cutting through the acrid sting of gas. They stumbled into the night air, coughing but safe. For a heartbeat, all he saw was her, the relief in her eyes, the way her hand clung to his sleeve.

Then he remembered.

Irene.

His stomach dropped.

Without a word, he turned back, plunging into the chaos he had just escaped. The tear gas burned his eyes, his lungs screamed, but he pressed forward. Through the haze, he found her collapsed by a fallen chair, her dress dusted with ash, her face pale.

“Irene!” he shouted, crouching to lift her. She stirred faintly, coughing. But beyond her, sprawled across the marble floor, lay Musa Yahya. His face was twisted in death, his once-boastful eyes blank. On his left palm, carved deep into the flesh, was the number

3. Blood had darkened the lifeline of his hand, staining the marble beneath him.

Karim froze.

It had happened again. The killer had struck, right under his nose.

And this time, Karim had been holding another

woman’s hand when it happened