Diane Rucho.

30

Emma Ruto's neighborhood was nothing short of Officer Michael's. Stringed-up old stucco-themed bungalows jammed together like a rack of books and god-awful gable roofs with crooked shingles–a sign of inexperienced contractors. The paint on the houses was an eye-twitching smear of green. The only thing that appeared to survive a futuristic decade was the road that cut across the neighborhood. It was made of concrete slab. Hard. Durable. Not one single sign of a pothole.

Michael parked his pickup truck on the side of the road, next to the trail that led up to Emma Ruto's front door. Streetlamps illuminated the road, providing him with adequate visibility as he climbed up the trail.

He knocked on the door, but there was no response. He knocked again, this time a little louder. After a few moments, the door swung open. Michael felt a sense of déjà vu and thought of Tricia Muiru, wondering how she was doing after the burglary.

"I was expecting Officer Arina," Emma Ruto said as soon as she saw him. She was wearing a pink overall pajama—a full-length lounger with a zipper, and a black wrap cloth tied around her hair. She pulled her arms tightly to her chest, trying to ward off the drafts of wind that were blowing in through the door.

"He has something else to attend to," Michael's voice was sharp and curt. He wanted to get back on the road. "I trust this won't take long."

Emma regarded him with a crooked look. Her eyes flickered brightly as snippets of street lamps cast light on her face. She had warm, delicate cocoa skin and primed cheekbones. She was beautiful. Michael imagined she had yet to go to sleep. "Are you in a rush?"

"Aren't we all?" Michael quipped.

"You know we could do this at another time. Maybe even have Officer Arina come instead if this is a waste of your time."

Michael laughed softly, his ears perked with delight. Smart mouth. "Don't get me wrong, madam. You know I didn't mean that."

Emma stared at him for a moment longer before saying, "Give me a moment." She disappeared down the hallway, returning a few minutes later with a piece of paper in her hand.

She closed the door behind her and said, "Walk with me."

Husband upstairs. Child sleeping in her room – she had mentioned having a young daughter at the interview in Amara Restaurant. She didn't want the family to know about the presence of an officer. But he noticed that there was no ring on her finger. If she was not married, why want to discuss things outside?

Michael followed her closely down the path. She stopped by his car, and he stopped behind her.

"Do you mind driving down the road?" she suddenly asked.

Michael opened the car door with his keys and walked her around to the passenger door, opening it wide for her as she settled in.

They drove a couple of blocks away when she finally said he could stop by the side of the road.

"What was that about?" Michael asked as soon as he hit the brakes.

"I don't want to invite any officers into my house. Plus, there are eyes everywhere. Forgive me if I am being too careful," she replied, her grip tight on the piece of paper.

Michael didn't think 'careful' was the right word. 'Suspicious' would be more accurate. And this only raised more questions.

"What is it that you wanted to show us?"

"I want reassurance that this meeting will be kept confidential if anything comes from it," her voice was almost a whisper. Soft like the sound of calm waves beating against the ocean. Michael heard his veins throb. He figured it was probably due to the uncomfortable situation he was in right now—having a woman seated right next to him in his car. No, that was wrong. Officer Rita Angari had always sat beside him in this very car, but never once had he felt this way. This was different.

"If the restaurant is linked to Diane's murder, then there's little I can do to keep the heat off."

"I don't think you understood me."

"Okay. We'll keep you out of the loop. So what is it?" Michael asked, one hand on the wheel.

Emma reared back on the ripped leather seat. "After both you and Officer Arina left, I decided to go through some of the records from ten years ago, specifically on the last day that Diane worked there. This was a hassle considering that back then records were not computerized. I had to go through piles of papers just to get to this." She flashed the paper in front of Michael's face.

He took hold of it, poring over the details. "What am I looking at?" he asked.

Emma replied, "A list of the guests that Diane served on May 10th, 2013. Timestamp: 8:00 P.M."

Michael read aloud the names on the list. He recognized one name in particular - Charles Ndemo, Vincent Waigara, Gary Wako, and William Khayi.

Gary Wako was among the guests that Diane served that night, as Preston had suspected. It would explain the connection between the two of them.

"Do you know these people?" Michael asked.

"No, not really. All I know is that it was probably an official meeting. You know, business-like. They paid a lot of money to reserve that table, so I'd probably say they were a rich group of men," Emma replied. "Do you think they could have something to do with the murder?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't know much at this point. But one name sticks out - Gary Wako. Does the group still come to the restaurant?"

"I would have known the names if that was the case. When I was promoted to Head of Staff, one of my many roles was to keep records of our guests in the data system, and it still is. So yeah, I would have noted those names. But nothing comes to mind right now," Emma said.

"When were you promoted?" Michael asked.

"About five years ago," Emma replied.

That was a five-year gap from the time Diane was murdered. Michael wondered if the group was still regulars up to the time of Emma's promotion.

"When we interviewed you back at the restaurant," Michael began.

"That was not an interview," Emma interrupted.

"When we spoke to you," Michael corrected himself. "You mentioned that you didn't want your daughter to end up like Diane Rucho."

"Yes, I did," Emma confirmed.

"Why did you say that?" Michael asked.

"Well, we all know what the world is like for women. We go through a lot, and Diane was no exception. I saw the bruises on her face that night," Emma explained.

Michael's interest was piqued. "Bruises?"

Emma nodded. "At first, I didn't see them well. She had done a good job of hiding them under a heavy set of concealer."

Michael shifted in his seat and turned to look at Emma. "I thought you said when the boyfriend came to see her, she didn't come back inside the restaurant."

"Yes, that's what I said. She didn't come back. That's the last I saw of her," Emma reiterated.

********

After dropping off Emma Ruto at her house, Michael tried to call Preston three times, but it went straight to voicemail.

He arrived at his apartment a little after 10 o'clock and found his father, Kosgey Tanui, seated on the large brown sofa. He had his eyes glued to the TV, where a classic comedy show was on.

Michael sat down beside him and said, "You can't watch TV all day."

His father gritted his teeth and glanced at him briefly before saying, "And what do you expect me to do? It's not like I can leave the damn house."

Ignoring his father's complaint, Michael turned off the TV.

Kosgey looked at him and spoke with a tremble to his lower lip, "I want to go home. I don't want to be here. Not like this. I don't want to die here, son."

Michael felt a lump form in his throat, hard and throbbing. He feared his eyes would start to water. "Let's talk about it tomorrow," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.