Latoya: Episode VIII – Dangerous Pursuits

 

 As I was driving my car I promised myself that I must do whatever it takes to crack this LaToya case. Mr. Sessoms  have already promised me that this case is my ticket to getting my green card. And, I desperately need that green card to get ahead in America; and Mr. Sessoms’ promise is a good motivation for me.

Tosha, my sweet girlfriend also wanted to help me get the green card, you know, through marriage. There’s nothing wrong with her doing that for me because I truly love her and want to marry her for real. It’s just that I’m one of those guys who doesn’t believe in having things dropped into my lap without me working for it. I believe in perspiring to acquire my desires. Besides, if I get my green card from my job, I will be sending a good message to Tosha when we eventually got married and settle down: that my love for her is real, and that I didn’t marry her just to get a green card.

Tosha!

Just thinking about this made me to start missing her. I can’t go to her house at this time because I need to focus on this LaToya’s case. But I have not spoken to her in while, and I’m sure she’ll be getting mad at me by now. So, I decided to give her a call. I stopped by a phone booth around the corner and dialed her number.

“Hey, hon,” her voice didn’t show any excitement.

“What, no social life? You didn’t go out with friends?” I asked.

“I’m not in the mood, Emeka,” she said. “I’m feel so sick and mad.”

“You got the flu or something?”

“No,” she said. “I’m mad at you!”

“Take it easy, baby,” I said. “I know I should have called you earlier, but I have been busy. You have every reason to be mad. I promise I will make it up…”

“I’m not talking about that,” she cut me off. “I’m talking about our relationship. I don’t know where it’s heading.”

“Common now…”

“No, I’m serious,” she said. “I have some news for you: Apolonia called. She and Jude are getting married next week.”

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “I guess I should say mazel tov[1] to them.”

“Is that all you gonna say?”

“What do you want from me, Tosha?” I said.

“This gonna sound awkward, but I’m gonna say it anyway,” she said. “Marry me Emeka.”

“Tosha, could we…?”

“I don’t want to hear it!” she snapped. “If you really love me like you said, I shouldn’t be the one proposing to you. I want your answer now.”

“Tosha sweetheart…”

“I’m not having that from you anymore,” she said. “If you can’t give me the ring this week, then you are dead to me.”

She hung up.

I dialed her number six times but she refused to pick up the phone. Convinced that she’s done with me for the day, I left the phone booth in a sad and confused mood.

When I walked into the lobby of the Empire Hotel in Baltimore Street, Stephen told me Medgar was in his bedroom.

“You just missed a guy who came here earlier asking for you,” Stephen went on. “I told him to check back later because you will be back tonight.”

“Do you know who he is?” I asked.

Stephen shook his head.

“He didn’t say why he was looking for me?” I said, pausing as I was about to cross the lobby for the stairs.

“No, he didn’t,” Stephen said. “He looked like a tough guy. Just in case he shows up again, do you want to see him?”

“I can’t see him tonight,” I replied. “Tell him to come back tomorrow morning. I can, however, speak to him on the phone if it is something urgent. I’m just not in the mood to see anyone tonight.”

“No problem,” Stephen said.

I went upstairs, along the passage to Medgar’s room. He was sitting in an armchair, with his feet in a basin of, what I believe, warm water. By his side, on a table, stood a 3-quart gallon of cranberry juice,  two glasses, one of them half full, and a bottled water. He smiled at me as I stood in the doorway, gaping at him.

“What the hell are you trying to pull?” I asked, coming in and shutting the door behind me.

“What does it look like I’m doing, you punk?” he said, laughing. “I’m resting my damn legs. I have been tramping my feet into all the neighborhoods in this area looking for some clue for  this Ms. LaToya case. You would be amazed at the number of motels and nightclubs in this area. They’re spread out all over West Baltimore and I’ve called on almost all of them.”

“Did you find him?”

Medgar laughed bitterly.

“Nope,” he said. “It was a total waste of my precious time. I wore my damned feet out for nothing.”

I lit a cigarette and poured myself a glass of cranberry juice.

“Are you sure you didn’t miss a hotel?” I asked.

“I’m so sure I can bet on it,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I got Stephen to make out a list; and he swears the list is complete. The guy didn’t stay at any hotel or motel  in West Baltimore. This is now a confirmed fact. I am convinced that he either lives in an apartment or a house or else he came in from Roland Park or some place, but he didn’t stay at a hotel or a motel.”

“Well,” I said. “The cops are looking for him now.”

I went on to tell Medgar of my visit to Baltimore City police office in West Baltimore. I broke the news as gently as possible that Devon has been murdered.

“Now you can see what I mean, right?” Medgar said, starting to dry his feet. “Three people have been knocked off already. This LaToya’s case is a dangerous one, and we’ll get knocked off too if we keep sticking our noses into this case. What do you say? I think we should …”

“Relax,” I said. “The Baltimore City police are taking care of it now. But, I gotta tell you: I’m really disappointed you didn’t find that guy in the blue jeans jacket. I would have liked to have talked to him before Captain Donald got on to him.”

“What can I say? The guy just didn’t stay in any of the hotels or motels in this part of the city,” Medgar said. “Let’s let the cops do their job. I’m sure they can hunt him down.”

“You asked Stephen if he stayed here, of course?” I asked casually.

Medgar started as if someone had touched him with a red-hot knife. His face looked confused as he stared at me, his eyes bulging.

“Why should he stay here?” he asked.

“Why shouldn’t he? Did you ask Stephen?”

“Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “I forgot to do that. I feel so dumb! If he did stay here…Oh my God! To think I have been tramping the streets of West Baltimore all day, wearing myself to a shadow and it never crossed my mind to ask Stephen.”

I picked up the telephone.

“This is Emeka,” I said when Stephen answered. “Do you remember if a guy stayed here around August of last year who wore a unique type of blue jeans jacket?”

He laughed.

“Common, Mr. Emeka,” he said. “A lot of men with blue jeans jacket comes here.”

“I know. But this one is over six foot, lean, with an eyebrow moustache. And his blue jeans jacket is a unique one – it sparkles. You can’t miss it.”

“You know what?” he said. “A guy with that description was indeed here in August. I remember him well. What’s up?”

“I’ll be right down,” I said. “I want to talk to you about him.”

I hung up and looked accusingly at Medgar.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Medgar,” I said. “The guy did stay here! You really need to wake up.”

“How was I supposed to know,” he demanded hoarsely.  “I can’t believed I’ve been tramping my feet into all the sidewalk in West Baltimore for nothing!

I left him and ran down the stairs.

“I’m glad you remembered this guy, Mr. Stephen,” I said, coming to rest at the reception desk. “Please tell me all you know about him.”

Stephen opened the register.

“The good news is that the record we have about him is intact,” he said. “Eddie Peterson – that’s his name – booked in on August 9. Here’s the entry. He came from Alexandra, Virginia. What’s the sudden interest on this guy?”

“He arrived the same day as Ms. LaToya did?”

“Yes,” he said. “Ms. LaToya booked in at noon. Eddie booked in at six in the evening.”

“Did he own a grey-colored BMW convertible?”

“Yes, he did. He parked it at a garage around the corner from here.”

“Would they have his car’s license number?”

“They might – it’s very possible they might.”

“When did Mr. Eddie leave?”

“He checked out the morning of the 17^th.”

“And that’s the day Ms. LaToya disappeared.” I said. “I may be wrong, but I am convinced Mr. Eddie has something to do with her disappearance. Did you ever see Mr. Eddie and LaToya together?”

“Not really,” he replied. “Mr. Eddie went out early and Ms. LaToya  didn’t leave her room until late.”

“Where was his room? Was it near Ms. LaToya’s room?”

“Yes,” Stephen replied after consulting the register. “Their rooms were opposite on the second floor.”

“Do you think they could have got together without you knowing about it?”

“That could be possible,” he said. “We don’t have full time floor employees. And, after 8 o’clock, none of the employees goes upstairs.”

“Did Mr. Eddie say why he had come to West Baltimore?”

“No, he did not,” he replied. “He didn’t say anything about his business or why he came to West Baltimore.”

“Did he have a lot of stuff?”

“If he did, they all entered into the one black suitcase he had with him,” he said.

“Did he had visitors, mails or phone calls?”

“I’m very sure he didn’t,” he replied.

“Is anybody at the garage now?”

“Omar will be there,” he said. “We don’t shut down until 1 o’clock.”

“I will have a word with Omar.”

But Omar, the garage attendant didn’t remember the license number of the BMW convertible. He remembered the car and he remembered Mr. Eddie.

“Mr. Eddie had plenty of dough,” he told me, “and he was always in a spending mood. I still remembered his daily car routine when he was here: he habitually took the car out every morning around ten and brought it back by midnight. He wanted his car cleaned every day, and he was pretty touchy  about how it looked. Sorry for disappointing you, but I just can’t remember the license number. We are talking about something that occurred fourteen months ago here. I get a lot of cars through my hands so there’s no way I can remember their owners’ license numbers.”

I gave him a five-dollar note and went back to the hotel. I found Medgar lying on his bed with a worried look on his face.

“His name is Eddie Peterson and he came from Alexandra, Virginia.”

“I don’t give a fuck who he is,” Medgar groaned. “I still can’t understand why I did such a dumb thing. I should be ashamed of myself. To think I’ve been all over West Baltimore for nothing, when all the time I could have been resting in the bar.”

I laughed.

“Common, Medgar,” I said. “You’d better pull yourself together. Just forget that it happened, okay? The long walk you had has probably done you good. It’s time you had some exercise.”

“Whatever,” he said.
“It’s too late to tell Captain Donald tonight. I will see him tomorrow. Let me just…” I broke off as I saw Medgar’s eyes open very wide as he stared past me towards the door.

I looked over my soldier and I almost had a heart attack.

Standing in the doorway was a short, thickset black man with a long, dark scar on his left cheek. He had on a camouflage jacket and a dirty, grey papa’s cap pulled down over his right eye.  About a three-day growth of beard and a cold viciousness in his eyes made him look even more scary.

He held a Colt .38 Special revolver in his right hand, and it pointed at me.

 

 

NOTE

 [1]Mazel tov: A Jewish phrase meaning “congratulations.”

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 8

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 9, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

---

 

LaToya: Episode VII - Lieutenant Lupton's Clue

 

Were Shakespeare living today, he might find a source of inspiration in Devon Weaver’s sudden death. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Darryl Lupton of the Baltimore City Police’s Homicide Squad, a big, handsome black man, stuck a cigarette on his lower lip and set fire to it. He looked across at me as I leaned against the wall. I didn’t want to be in the way of the fingerprint men as they worked in the small room. All that now remained of Devon Weaver was a splash of blood on the dirty bed cover.

 

“Donald Pomperleau will want to take care of this,” Lieutenant Darryl said. “If what you just told me is right, it starts from his end.”

“Who is he?” I said.

“He’s the acting Chief of Police for Baltimore City. Last year he asked us to check the Virgo Nightclub in Alexandra, Virginia, where this girl LaToya  was supposed to have worked. Unfortunately, we did not turn up anything.” Lieutenant Darryl gave me a hard smile. “You have really managed to paint me black this time.”

I had worked with him in the past on a murder case in East Baltimore, and I have immense respect for his intelligence and capabilities.

“Paint you black?” I said. “I don’t get it.”

Lieutenant Darryl laughed.

“Never mind,” he said, and then turned to Sergeant Gana, his second in charge.

“You take care of this, Gana. This smart boy here and I will go and talk to Donald Pomperleau. When you are done, drive over so you can take me back.”

Sergeant Gana nodded.

“No problem, Lieutenant.”

“Come on, Mr. Emeka,” Lieutenant Darryl said, taking my arm. “You can run me to our office in West Baltimore. Donald will be interested to hear your story. He hit the top when LaToya disappeared, but he had to drop the case when we couldn’t find a body.”

“I will like to have a copy of the photograph of Devon Weaver’s remains,” I said to Sergeant Gana. “I’m staying at the  Empire Hotel in Baltimore Street.”

Sergeant Gana looked at Lieutenant Darryl for confirmation.

“Let him have it,” Lieutenant Darryl said. “I am in the picture too, so it will be a good publicity for our department.”

“I won’t depend on it if I were you,” I said. “Mr. Sessoms may block you out. It’s nothing personal. It’s just for a business reason.”

“How’s that?” Lieutenant Darryl asked.

“We just have to be careful about how much horror we print,” I replied.

“Whatever,” he said. “Now come on.”

We went down the stairs together.

On our way to the Baltimore City police office in West Baltimore, I went over my story again  so Lieutenant Darryl could be sure he hadn’t missed a point.

“The good news is that your story showed a few new leads to work on now,” he said when I finished. “I always thought there was something strange the way Lamar Hooke died. So, where does this Breonna girl fit in?”

“Search me,” I said. “I have no idea at the moment.” I swerved past a white Ford F-150 truck, then went on, “What’s Donald Pomperleau like? Is he someone I can work with?”

Lieutenant Darryl shrugged.

“I guess so,” he said. “Almost every cop in Baltimore City want his picture in your newspaper. Donald Pomperleau is a good man, but he doesn’t like being kept out of things. Here’s one mistake you’ve made: you should have seen him before you went after Devon Weaver.”

“For Christ’s sake!” I exclaimed. “We just began this investigation yesterday. And I was going to see him as soon as I had talked to Devon Weaver.”

“Just be careful with him,” he advised. “By the way, you still working with that former English-teacher-turned-journalist?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why?”

“He’s a bright guy,” he said. “One would have thought he could have done something better than hack for Baltimore Star newspaper.”

I laughed.

“Everyone thinks that,” I said. “Well, I will give it to him: he is smart when he wants to be.”

It was around eight in the evening when I pulled up outside the Baltimore City police office in West Baltimore.

“I expect Donald Pomperleau will have gone home by now,” Lieutenant Darryl said, getting out of the car. “We’ll see.”

The desk sergeant told us that the captain was still in his office. He put through a call to his office and then told us to go on up.

Police Captain Donald Pomperleau was a tall, powerfully-built white man who was originally from Canada but later became a naturalized citizen of the United States. A man in his late fifties, Pomperleau has a strong, hard face, piercing blue eyes and a shock of greying hair.

He shook hands with Lieutenant Darryl, and when Lieutenant Darryl introduced me, he smiled, seemingly pleased to meet me.

“I like your newspaper,” he said. “Your Baltimore Star report from our angle, and that’s what I like about it.

 I smiled.

“How else can we eat if we don’t keep in with the cops?” I said. “Besides, our job is a good cause: to inform the masses.”

“Don’t mind him,”  Lieutenant Darryl said. “He’s always cracking jokes. Anyway, Captain, Mr. Emeka has been doing our work for us. He just discovered some new things on the LaToya Young case.”

Captain Donald sat down, motioned us to chairs and looked hard at me.

“Mr. Thomas Sessoms, my editor, thought it might be  a good idea if we did an article on the  LaToya Young’s case,”  I explained. “I came down here to pick up background information on the case and was lucky enough to stumble on something information you haven’t got in your police report. You’ve probably been told about it by now.”

“Tell me, anyway,” Captain Donald said, lighting up a cigarette.

Being careful not to omit anything, I went over the story again.

Neither Captain Donald nor Lieutenant Darryl interrupted, and when I had finished there was a long pause. I could see Captain Donald didn’t like receiving this kind of information second-hand.

“Why didn’t you inform me about this right away?” he said. “I would have grabbed Devon Weaver before he left town.”

“Devon Weaver wasn’t my target at the time,” I said. I took the tiny triangle-shaped object out of my pocket and pushed it across the desk toward Captain Donald. “And he was dead by the time I found this.”

Captain Donald looked at Lieutenant Darryl.

“When did he die?”

“Last night, I believe,” I said. “He arrived at Daquan Paradise’s joint at one o’clock in the morning. So, in my view, he was knocked off between three and four o’clock.”

“Any lead on the killer yet?”

Lieutenant Darryl shook his head.

“Whoever did it is a professional,” he said. “There was no fingerprints and no noise. Also, no one saw anything. At four o’clock in the morning even the punks in Daquan Paradise’s place sleep.”

Captain Donald picked up the tiny trangle-shaped object and studied it. Then he put it down and puffed smoke up in the air while he continued to think.

“You’ve indeed started something, Mr. Emeka,” he said, looking over at me. “Let’s go through LaToya’s dossier again.” He picked up the telephone and asked for LaToya Young’s dossier.”

“I have no doubt in my mind that Lamar was lying,” he went on as he hung the phone. “It is hard to figure out how Ms. LaToya could have disappeared unless she had gone out past Lamar’s door. Just consider this: Ms. LaToya had only 8 minutes in which to do her disappearing act, and the stage door exit was the nearest to her room. That’s why we focused on Lamar during our investigation of the case. Unfortunately, we couldn’t move him from his story. I think he and Devon were working together.”

A tap came on the door and a white policewoman brought in a blue folder which she gave to Captain Donald.

“Lamar and Devon could have kidnapped the girl and have taken her to Devon’s room. This tiny triangle-shaped object under his bed points to it,” Captain Donald said as he opened the blue folder. After turning some pages he read for a moment, then said, “Ms. LaToya was wearing a gold bracelet with this tiny triangle-shaped object on it when she disappeared.”

“I doubt that they took her to Devon’s room,” I said. “To do that, they had to pass through the shop.  That’s the only way up to the room. So, they couldn’t have taken Ms. LaToya there unless the owner of the shop was in it too. And I don’t think he was. He gave me Devon’s address. It’s my guess Lamar and Devon were hired to kidnap Ms. LaToya. Lamar got her into his office by telling her she was wanted on the telephone. Ms. LaToya was expecting a call anyway. Lamar probably hit her on the head and bundled her into a waiting car. There must have been someone beside Lamar and Devon in this to handle the car. Both Lamar and Devon would have to stay in their jobs to alibi each other. Maybe the gold bracelet fell off Ms. LaToya’s wrist when Lamar knocked her out. He might have given it to Devon or he might have gone to Devon’s room later with it.”

Lieutenant Darryl nodded.

“Very smart, Mr. Emeka,” he said. “Very smart. It could have happened that way.”

“In that case we will start a hunt for LaToya’s bracelet,”  Captain Donald said. “I know that the approach does look hopeless after fourteen months have passed. But it does worth a try.”

“Who’s this guy in the blue jeans jacket?” Lieutenant Darryl asked. “We have a fairly good description of him, so are we gonna be able to turn him up?”

“Medgar’s looking for him right now,” I said. “He has  probably got on to him by now, I believe.”

Lieutenant Darryl grinned.

“You two are really a two-man detectives, aren’t you?” he said, and looked over at Captain Donald. “I think this guy in the blue jeans jacket is important. We need to find out who he is.”

Captain Donald nodded.

“Then there’s this Breonna girl,” he said. “I’m trying to figure out where she fits in.”

“Do you have anything about her death?” I asked.

Captain Donald reached for the telephone and called for the Breonna’s dossier.

“I had to double-check what the coroner’s verdict was,” he said. “We didn’t know she was connected with Ms. LaToya otherwise I would have been a lot more interested in her case.”

I picked up the tiny triangle-shaped object.

“Who’s E. P.?” I asked. “Maybe he could tell us something about Ms. LaToya. We basically know nothing about her, correct? Something tells me she must have been hiding from someone.”

“You know what? I thought so too,” Captain Donald said, leaning forward to take a file the policewoman had brought in. He opened the file, went through it briskly, and then put it on his desk. “The coroner was satisfied Ms. Breonna’s death was an accident. She apparently tripped on her dress while going downstairs, fell and broke her neck.”

“Did the dossier say who she was?”

Captain Donald went through the file again.

“According to what I just read here,” he said. “She was in show business. She just returned from Hollywood, California. She and the other seven girls had gone there on a movie casting engagement, but the whole thing flopped. She came back to Baltimore broke, and was looking for work.”

“Ms. LaToya couldn’t have been one of the other seven girls, could she?” I asked. “You may wanna check that.”

Captain Donald nodded.

“We’ll do that.”

“I think Ms. Breonna was murdered,” I said. “And I think Mr. Lamar was murdered too.”

Captain Donald smiled grimly.

“Now listen,” he said. “You can’t just jump to that conclusion – there’s not a shred of evidence that either of them was murdered.”

“When did Ms. Breonna die?”

“Her dossier showed that she died in August 20.”

“Now, let’s look at the facts,” I began. “Ms. Breonna called at the Empire Hotel in Baltimore Street on the 20^th asking for Ms. LaToya. Then she went home and falls downstairs. Come to that, wasn’t August the 20^th  the night Mr. Lamar died?”

Captain Donald looked sharply at me, consulted LaToya’s dossier and then nodded.

“It is,” he said, frowning. “Mr. Lamar died in the night of August 20.”

“It is an interesting coincidence, don’t you think?” I said.

“You are correct,” Lieutenant Darryl broke in. “It is too obvious to be a coincidence. I think Mr. Emeka got something, captain.”

“I agree,” Captain Donald said, lifting his shoulders. “However, there’s still no evidence; but there’s no harm in digging for more evidence.”

“You have a picture of Ms. LaToya?” I asked.

“Yes,” Captain Donald said. “They are in the dossier. Why?”

“Did you cover the national press or just the local press when she disappeared?”

“We covered the local press only,” Captain Donald said. “What’s the point you are trying to make here?”

“I think it’ll be good to get the national press involved in this case,” I said. “So, I suggest that you print a picture of Ms. LaToya in every paper in the country and ask if anyone knows her. Medgar and I will go to town on it too. That way, we might get more things about her. According to Jonah Duncan, she’s been in show business for some time. It is very possible she has been working under another name. Let’s just try this strategy and see where it can get us.”

Captain Donald nodded. 

“Who’s Medgar again?” he asked.

“He’s my partner in this case,” I replied.

“Okay, Mr. Emeka,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m really impressed by your work – you are pretty smart for an intern journalist.”

“Thanks, but save the compliment for the future.”

I got to my feet.

“I would like to work with you guys on this,” I said. “I won’t get in your way, and I’ll pass to you anything I find out. Ms. LaToya’s case has the markings of a sensational story. So, naturally, I want to be on it from the beginning. What do you say?”

“Excellent,” Captain Donald said. “You carry on. My door will be open any time you want to see me.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “If Medgar and I turns up anything, I’ll give you a call.”

I shook hands with him, nodded at Lieutenant Darryl and then went down to the car.

 

 

END OF EPISODE 7

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 8, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

 

LaToya: Episode VI – Echoes of Betrayal

 

 By the time I returned to the Empire Hotel on Baltimore Street, it was already past one o'clock. It was a warm day, and the humidity was low. It was the kind of day one would like to spend with their girlfriend at a beach. The thought of Tosha flashed through my mind, and I pushed it away with great difficulty.

 I found Medgar sitting in the lobby, hollow-eyed and pale, with a glass of vodka and water within reach.

 "Still drinking?" I said. "You're going to have alcohol poisoning if you're not careful."

 Medgar closed his eyes, then opened them and shuddered.

 "Keep your voice down, will you?" he said. "I have a splitting headache. I think my head is about to explode."

 "Good for you," I said. "Come on. It's lunchtime. I have some news for you."

 Medgar recoiled.

 "Food? You must be kidding. I can't hold down food at the moment."

 "You've got no choice," I said, grabbing him by the arm and hustling him into the restaurant. "If you don't want to eat, you can watch me eat my lunch."

 My lunch consisted of grilled chicken on mixed greens and rice with house-made pico de gallo, black bean corn salsa, and guacamole. While I ate, I gave Medgar a detailed account of what I had discovered last night and of my work during the morning. He immediately forgot about his headache and became very interested.

 "We're really doing a good job here, Medgar," I said. "We already know more than the Baltimore City police did when they dropped the case. I feel so good about the progress we've made so far. For instance, we know LaToya was in touch with this guy in a blue jeans jacket and a gold chain on his neck. The Baltimore City police didn't manage to locate him, or if they did, they didn't consider him important enough to mention. I think it makes a lot of sense to investigate him. It's strange for any man to wear dark sunglasses even at night. And another thing: who is this girl Breonna Adams? Where does she fit into this mess? She called here three days after LaToya disappeared and asked for her. Then she promptly fell downstairs and died. Lamar Hooke is the only guy who could have seen LaToya leave the club, and he gets himself conveniently run over by a hit-and-run driver who was never found. I think Breonna Adams and Lamar Hooke were eliminated because they knew too much."

 Medgar's eyes almost popped.

 "Oh my God!" he said.

 "What is...?"

 "Has it occurred to you that we also know too much now?" he said in a low voice.

 "I don't follow," I said. "What are you trying to say?"

 "Suppose someone starts trying to eliminate us for knowing too much?" he said.

 "Now you sound like a kid," I said. "Journalists never get eliminated. It's time you put your brain to good use, Medgar."

 "I'm just saying," he said. "I have a bad feeling about this case. Maybe we should drop it, Emeka. I'm damn serious! We could be in serious trouble."

 "Aw, shut the hell up," I said. "Tell you the truth, I'm surprised you're not taking the lead in this investigation. You're already a confirmed reporter, and I'm still an intern – you forget?"

 "I hear that," he smirked.

 "Stop doing that," I said. "Anyway, whether you like it or not, this is going to be our best story. I'm going after Devon. I want you to find this guy in the blue jeans jacket and a gold chain. I know it's possible he has already skipped town, but it won't hurt you to call all the hotels in West Baltimore to see if anyone recognizes his description. His car might help you in this work."

 Medgar nodded reluctantly.

 “Well, I guess I have no choice, do I?” he said. “The good thing is that there can’t be many hotels in West Baltimore – I hope!”

 I pushed back my chair.

 “Well, let’s get moving. I’ll need your Chevrolet. I should be back from Roland Park tonight. See you here soon.”

 Medgar got to his feet, and we went into the lobby.

 “Hold on a minute,” I told him and stepped into the telephone booth. I called the Zodiac nightclub and asked to be put through to the stage door office.

 “Is David there?” I asked.

 “This is David talking. Is that Mr. Emeka?”

 “Yes, it’s me,” I replied. “Quick question for you: do you know if Miss LaToya owned a gold bracelet?”

 “Sure, Mr. Emeka. She did have one, and she showed it to me.”

 “Was there a tiny triangle-shaped object on it?”

 “That’s right,” he said. “It’s the main reason she showed her bracelet to me.”

 “Thanks a lot for your help,” I said and hung up. I left the booth and joined Medgar. “Another important achievement. I was right. The tiny triangle-shaped object came off LaToya’s bracelet. David saw it. Devon Weaver will have to explain how it got into his room.”

 “We are really smart journalists, at least smarter than Mr. Sessoms thinks, aren’t we?” Medgar said.

 “I have no comment yet,” I said. “See you tonight.”

 It was four o’clock and growing dusk when I drove past Rotunda Shopping Mall and stopped on West 41st Street to inquire about the way to 809 Falls Road in Roland Park.

 The cop told me to head to the intersection of Northern Parkway and Falls Road via Coldspring Lane. Upon reaching there, I left the Chevrolet in a vacant plot and walked down the dirty street, at the end of which was 809 Falls Road. I paused and looked at the building. It was part of a rowhouse, with a bunch of kids playing a dice game on the nearby stoop. They looked at me and quickly lost interest in me, their attention focused on their game.

 “How are you doing, guys?” I said.

 “Good,” a few of them replied without looking at me.

 “Does Mr. Devon live here?” I asked.

 “Yes, but he’s not home now,” one of them said. He shifted a little to let me pass.

 As I walked up the worn, wooden steps, the kids turned to stare at me. The front door was ajar, and I pushed it open and entered a large, bare hall. A skinny black guy was sitting on an upturned box with his back against the wall, reading the Baltimore Sun newspaper. He looked up and stared at me, his eyes tired, and he looked as bored as a louse.

 “How are you doing, sir?” I said.

 “Doing good,” he replied.

 “Where can I find Devon Weaver?” I asked and showed him a ten-dollar bill.

 His eyes lit up.

 “He’s on the third floor, Room No. 8,” he said. He reached for the ten-dollar bill, and I let him have it.

 “Is he there now?”

 “I believe he is,” he replied. “He has been indoors all day.”

 “Thanks a lot,” I said, and began to climb the stairs.

 When I reached the third floor, I heard a radio blaring from behind one of the closed doors. I quickly went along the passage to room 8, paused to listen with my ear against the panel. I didn’t hear anything, so I rapped at the door.

 There was no sound.

 I turned the handle and opened the door.

 Devon Weaver lay across the bed. His dirty yellow T-shirt had a red patch just below where his heart was. Growing out of the patch was the handle of a Cuda stainless steel ice pick. His face looked waxen and stiff, indicating that he had been dead for some hours.

END OF EPISODE 6

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 7, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

Latoya: Episode V - Whispers from the Staircase

 

At nine-thirty the following morning, I opened Medgar's bedroom door, and what I saw didn't surprise me in the least. Medgar was still in bed, undressed, his mouth hanging open, completely oblivious to the world around him.

Considering his current condition, it seemed pointless to wake him up. He'd be virtually useless to me in this state. So, I quietly closed the door and made my way downstairs. I told Stephen not to disturb Medgar and then headed to the garage, where I picked up the blue Chevrolet Impala Sedan for my next destination.

Breonna Adams' apartment was located in the peaceful part of Calhoun Street, nestled in a rowhouse adorned with faded blue curtains at the windows and a flight of wooden steps leading to the front door. After leaving the Chevrolet Impala Sedan, I climbed the steps and paused in the lobby to examine the row of mailboxes. However, Breonna Adams' name was nowhere to be found. I decided to knock on the janitor's office door.

A portly Mexican man wearing a white t-shirt, a dead cigar dangling from his lips, opened the door with little interest in his eyes. He curtly told me to "get lost" and began to shut the door.

I quickly interjected, wedging my foot in the door to prevent it from closing entirely. "Hold on, sir," I said. "I'm looking for Miss Breonna. I was told she lives here."

"Breonna Adams, you mean?" he asked, studying me.

"Yeah," I replied. "I couldn't find her name on the mailboxes."

"You won't," he said, his tone somber. "You won't find her here either. The only place you can find her is at the cemetery in North Avenue. That's where she lives now."

A shiver ran down my spine. "You mean Miss Breonna is dead?"

"I hope so," he responded dryly, "because they put her in a coffin and buried her. The asshole owed me one month's rent. Anyway, long story short, she didn't have a dime, and the cops took her belongings."

"What happened?" I inquired. "Did she get sick or something?"

"It's a real tragedy, her death," he mused, gesturing toward the steep staircase ahead. "She fell down those damn stairs. I reckon she might've been drunk to fall like that. She hit the floor hard, I tell you. I thought the whole house was coming down. But the cops said she wasn't drunk. What do they know, anyway?"

"Do you recall when this happened?" I pressed.

"Last August, I believe."

"Do you remember the exact date?"

"Why should I?" the janitor replied, showing his impatience. "You're asking the wrong person, mister. If you need more information about Breonna Adams, you should talk to the cops." With that, he began to close the door. "Have a good day, sir."

Too shaken to continue the conversation, I allowed him to shut the door in my face. As I walked back to the car, I lit a cigarette and stared through the windshield at the grimy street ahead. It was an eerie coincidence: two individuals connected to LaToya had met their demise, both shortly after LaToya had disappeared. What made it even stranger was that both of them had died in accidents – Lamar had been killed by a hit-and-run driver, and Breonna Adams had fallen down the stairs.

"Very, very strange," I murmured to myself before starting the ignition and driving towards Fulton Street.

No. 23 Fulton Street turned out to be a convenience store. I assumed Devon Weaver had a room above it, but since there was no side door, I entered the store.

A stout African-American woman in a green overall greeted me, her eyes scanning me up and down as I approached. "How are you doing?" she inquired. "And how can I assist you?"

"I'm looking for Devon Weaver," I said, offering her a friendly smile. "I was told this is where he hangs out."

She gave me a quick, assessing look. "Why are you looking for him?"

"Well," I replied, still smiling, "I'm a friend of a friend of his, and I'll let him tell you if he wants you to know. Is he around?"

“Nope,” she said. “Are you a cop?”

“I’m flattered,” I said. “Do I really look like a cop?”

“Mm, you never knew,” she replied. “Are you Devon’s girlfriend or something?”

She made a disapproving expression, her face contorting briefly.

"Not really," she suddenly flashed a smile. "He's not my type, though. Not that it matters now. Anyway, I can see you are not a cop. Devon’s gone."

"You mean he’s left for work?" I inquired.

"Come on," she said with a hint of impatience. "You're not this dense. Devon’s gone. Packed up and skipped town. You understand English, don’t you?"

"Yes, I do," I affirmed.

"Okay, then," she continued, "Devon left late last night. I believe he’s in some kind of trouble. I wasn't too surprised because this is not his first time."

I maintained eye contact with her while I lit a cigarette, carefully placing the match in the ashtray on the counter.

"He didn't mention where he was going to you?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No," she replied. "He did settle his rent before he left, which is a good thing. Now, let me tell you something, mister: you don’t ask Devon questions unless you want a new set of teeth."

"How long had he been living here?" I inquired further.

"About two years."

I reached into my wallet and produced a ten-dollar bill. It was 1977, and ten dollars held significant value in those days. Besides, since Mr. Sessoms was covering the expenses for this investigation, we didn't hesitate to spend money when necessary.

"I would like to take a look at his room," I requested. "Is ten dollars sufficient?"

She had fingers as thick as bricks, and her nails were stained pink. She eagerly snatched up the bill and then retrieved a key from the cash register, handing it to me.

 

"Just go through that door and then upstairs," she instructed. "His room is the second door on the left. If my old man catches you, that’s your problem. He can be quite unpredictable at times, my old man."

"No worries," I assured her. "I'll handle him."

I proceeded into a dimly lit hallway and ascended the grimy stairs. When I reached the second floor, I paused outside the second door on the left. Sliding the key into the lock, I turned it and gently pushed the door open.

Devon Weaver’s room showed clear signs of a hasty departure. Closet doors hung ajar, drawers were pulled out of the dresser and scattered on the floor, and there was dirty, soapy water in the bathroom washstand.

Silently closing the door, I surveyed the room. It was evident that I had stirred something up. Devon had panicked, likely lying about knowing LaToya because he was caught off guard and said the first thing that came to mind. He had hastily packed and fled as soon as he realized his significant error.

I began a thorough and methodical search of the room. It wasn't until I moved the bed away from the wall that I discovered something sparkling beneath a thick layer of dust. Bending down, I retrieved the object and carried it to the window for closer examination.

It was a small triangular object made of gold, resembling something one might find on a lady's bracelet. Engraved on one side were the initials "L.Y. from E. P., June 24," in letters so minuscule that they were barely legible.

L. Y. – LaToya Young?

After scrutinizing the tiny triangular item, I placed it in my pocket. As I turned to continue searching Devon’s room, the door suddenly swung open, revealing a burly black man with a stern expression.

"Who the hell are you?" he growled.

"My name is Emeka Okeke," I replied, deducing that he was the girl's father. "I'm looking for Devon. Do you know where he is?"

"Why's that my concern?" he retorted. "Anyway, you can see he’s not here. So, get lost before I throw you out!"

He appeared menacing and physically capable of carrying out his threat, so I made my way toward the door.

"I really need to see him," I persisted. "Will twenty bucks change your mind?"

His demeanor softened slightly. "It'll cost you thirty bucks."

I shook my head. "Twenty is my final offer, and we have a deal."

"Alright," he relented. "I can do with twenty."

I retrieved two ten-dollar bills from my wallet and handed them to him.

"Where is he?" I inquired.

"He's gone to Daquan Paradise’s place. 809 Falls Road, Roland Park."

"Are you sure about that?" I pressed.

"Well," he responded, reaching for the bills, "that's where he told me to forward his mail. So, naturally, if he isn't there now, he'll eventually show up."

I handed him the twenty dollars, acknowledging the possibility that he might be deceiving me. Nevertheless, since it was Mr. Sessoms’ money at stake and not my own, I deemed the risk worthwhile.

"You'll be hearing from me again," I assured him as I passed by him. "If I don't find him there."

Descending the stairs to the street, I entered the Chevrolet Impala Sedan.

 

 

END OF EPISODE 5

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 6, which  will be published here next Sunday.