LaToya: Episode XV – Mystery at No. 39 Monroe

Monroe Street is a quiet street in Baltimore City. The street is lined with row houses and a few single homes. The row houses and the few single homes in the area might have been attractive when they were first built, but now they were past their prime. They had the dejected look of a man facing divorce, bankruptcy, and homelessness at the same time, but who is trying to keep up appearances even though he knew he won’t be able to hold on much longer.

No. 39 S. Monroe Street was a single house. Although the paint work was at its last gasp, the house still able to make a brave show.

I knocked at the door. There was a brief delay before the door opened and a plump black lady looked inquiringly at me. She was very beautiful and had the standard body contour you would expect from a any lady who earns a living in show business.  She had on a green lace-trim cami complete with a chunky knitted cardigan, and  her feet were in pink suede leather shearling fur scuff slippers.

“Ms. Anaya?” I said.

“Yes,” she replied. “And if you are here to sell something you are wasting your time.”

“I’m not selling anything, ma’am,” I said. “I’m Emeka Okeke from Baltimore Star. Ever read our paper, ma’am?”

“I don’t read Baltimore’s newspapers,” she said. “Their news is very depressing.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “I want to ask you a some questions, ma’am, if you don’t mind? I am trying to get some background information on Breonna Adams.”

She raised her beautiful eyebrows.

“But Breonna is dead,” she replied. “It’s almost a year since her death.”

“You are correct. Will you mind if I come in? I promise I won’t keep you long.”

She stood aside.

“Well,” she said, smiling. “I must warn you that if this is a trick to rob me it’ll be a waste of time. There’s nothing of value in my house.”

I took out my wallet and gave her one of my business cards.

“This should set your mind at rest,” I said. “But if it doesn’t, please feel free to call up Sergeant Bruce at the police headquarters. He will confirm that I’m telling you the truth.”

She laughed.

“Alright, come in,” she said. “I’m sorry I have no drink to offer you.” She led the way into her sitting room. “Do sit down. I hope you’ll keep your word and be brief because I’ve got to go out in a little while.”

“I always keep my word, ma’am,” I said, sitting down in an armchair that looked comfortable, but turned out to be far from it. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had told me it had been stuffed with rocks. I took from my wallet the photograph of LaToya Young and offered it to her.

“Ever seen this girl before?” I asked.

Taking the photograph from me, she studied it, shook her head, and handed it back to me.

“The face looks familiar,” she said. “But that don’t nothing. A lot of girls in show business look like that, I mean.”

I thought about this, studied LaToya Young’s face and was inclined to agree with her.

“You’re sure she wasn’t one of the girls in your troupe when you went to Hollywood, California?”

“Absolutely,” she replied. “I’m very sure she wasn’t in our group.”

“Breonna Adams went with you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I will appreciate it a lot, Mr. Emeka, if I knew what this was all about.”

“My apologies,” I said. “Let me clear your mind: this girl, LaToya Young, disappeared fourteen months ago under questionable circumstances. Breonna Adams seems to have known her. Long story short, she called at LaToya’s hotel three days after LaToya had disappeared. Ms. Breonna asked the reception clerk to let her know if LaToya showed up. She then returned to her apartment in Calhoun Street, fell downstairs and broke her neck.”

“I know she fell downstairs,” Anaya Walker said, looking curiously at me. “But then, it was an accident, right or wrong?”

“According to the coroner, yes,” I said. “The Baltimore City police think so too, but I highly doubt it. In my view, she could have been pushed.”

“Pushed?” she said, looking questioningly at me. “Why would anybody do that?”

“It’s a long story which I can’t get into now, Ms. Anaya. I may be wrong, but something tells me I’m not. I’m trying to find out if Ms. Breonna was a friend or just an acquaintance of LaToya’s. Would you know?”

She shook her head.

“Breonna never mentioned any LaToya Young to me.”

“Were you and Ms. Breonna friends?”

“Not really,” she said. “Breonna was rather difficult. None of the girls got on well with her.”

“Difficult? How do you mean?”

She hesitated, then shrugged.

“I hate gossiping about people,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter now anyway, since Breonna is dead. She was always broke, and she tried to borrow from us. The problem is that we were all hard up, and we had to manage the little stipend we were paid. Breonna, however, was never careful with her money. She don’t believe in thrift, and she was always in debt, always worrying someone for a loan. And if she didn’t get it, she could  fly into a rage. Her tongue can cut like a razor.”

“What did she normally spend her money on?”

Anaya Walker shrugged.

“She spends it on what girls generally spend their money on: clothes, shoes, perfumes. I remember how I used to envy her because she dressed better than us. She had an amazing talent for making friends with people with deep pockets, and soon she began moving in a better circle. When she was in Hollywood, she got friendly with Mrs. Tara Graves, the millionaire’s wife. Don’t ask me how she did it for I had no idea. But she did it. That’s the bottom line. Twice she went to Mrs. Tara Graves’s hotel and had dinner with her. She borrowed a dress from me for the occasion, and, to put on a front, she also was able to squeeze thirty dollars out of some of the girls. She never paid the money back, and  getting my dress back was a nightmare.”

While I was less interested in what she was saying about  Breonna’s profligate lifestyle, I let her talk in the hope she would say something that would be hot news to me. 

“Did you ever see her with a white guy of about  six foot, lean, with an eyebrow moustache?” I asked hopefully.

“No,” she replied. “Breonna didn’t have any young boyfriends. She prefer matured men and all her male clients were old: dentists, business owners, and sugar daddies.”

For a girl who didn’t like gossiping about people, she was certainly doing a good job, I thought.

“Have you ever met any man who fit that description? His name might be Eddie Peterson, and he owns a grey colored BMW convertible.”

“I wish I had,” she replied. “He sounds fun. My boyfriend don’t even have a car.”

I concluded in my mind that I wasn’t making any progress with her.

“Did Breonna have any enemies, do you know?” I asked as a final question.

“She had a lot of enemies,” she said. “But none of them would want to kill her, if that’s what you mean. They just avoided her.”

“Well, Ms. Anaya,” I said getting up. “It’s been nice to meet you. Thanks for your time.” I was glad to be out of the armchair.

I looked around her room, which looked cheap by the way, and then at her.

“I am going to embarrass you, Ms. Anaya,” I said. “My boss wanted me to pay for any worthy information I got from somebody.” I brought out a twenty-dollars note and placed it on her table. “That’s a token of my appreciation for your time.”

If Mr. Sessoms could have heard me he would have blown his top. But I wouldn’t care if he does because I like this girl and it was pretty obvious she was having a rough time.

She blushed prettily.

“Oh my God!,” she shouted. “I wasn’t expecting anything from you. I haven’t told you anything. But thanks a lot.”

“No worries,” I said. “I might be back for more information.”

“Be my guest anytime,” she said, smiling.

I left her apartment and entered my car.

 

 

END OF EPISODE 15

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 16, which  will be published here next Sunday.