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.