LaToya: Episode XXIX – Pawns of Fate

 

I heard a car door slam outside, followed by the hum of the engine starting up. A man's voice shouted through the open window, "That was a fantastic evening! I hope next weekend's just as fun!"

I stared down at the lifeless face of Mr. Powell's Mexican housekeeper. It hadn't been a grand evening for her, I thought, feeling the cold, damp fabric of my shirt clinging to my back.

The car sped away, the roar of its engine fading into the night.

There was nothing more I could do for this poor woman, and I took a step back, my mind racing. What about Mr. Powell? Was he shot too?

I hurried across the hall to the lounge, fumbling for the light switch. For a moment, the room seemed empty, but then I noticed something that made my heart skip a beat. A foot in an elegant sandal, sticking out from behind one of the couches.

I moved cautiously around the couch.

Mr. Powell was sprawled face down, his fingers curled into the plush carpet. A small patch of blood had soaked through his crisp blue pajamas, right in the middle of his back.

I bent down and touched one of his hands. His skin was still warm, surprising me. I checked his neck for a pulse—nothing. He must have died less than ten minutes ago, I thought, given the lingering warmth.

I muttered to myself, “I need to get out of this house of death. If the Alexandra police find me here, I’m in deep trouble.”

As I straightened up, my eyes landed on the cupboard where Mr. Powell kept his sketch files. The doors were wide open, and one of the files lay on the floor, its contents scattered across the carpet. A small safe in the cupboard had been tampered with; a key hung loosely in the lock, and the door was slightly ajar.

I walked over and peered inside. A thick packet of hundred-dollar bills sat atop a pile of drawings, tied neatly with white tape. Mr. Powell probably didn’t even use a bank, I thought. I picked up a stack of the bills and glanced at the drawings.

“Don’t move!” barked a voice from the doorway.

I froze, the hundred-dollar bills clutched tightly in my right hand, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Turn around slowly and keep your hands where I can see them,” the voice ordered.

I turned slowly.

Standing in the doorway was Sergeant Montgomery, a massive Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol gripped in his large hand, the barrel aimed directly at my chest.

His hard, beady eyes locked onto mine, and as recognition dawned on his face, he flashed a grin.

"Well, well, look who it is," he sneered. "You've sure stumbled into something big this time, haven’t you, snooper? Two murders and a robbery—perfect fodder for your next headline story."

I felt like a complete idiot for picking up the money. I loosened my fingers, and the bundle of bills dropped to the carpet with a soft thud. I was in serious trouble now, and I knew there was no talking my way out of this mess.

“It’s not what you think,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and steady. “But I swear, I didn’t kill them. Mr. Powell called me at my hotel. He wanted to see me, but when I got here, he was already dead.”

“I know he called you,” Sergeant Montgomery replied, still grinning. “I traced the call and figured I’d stop by to see what was happening. Looks like it was the smartest decision I made all week. Now, where’s your gun?”

“I don’t have a gun,” I protested. “And I didn’t shoot him.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Montgomery scoffed. “This is going to be the easiest arrest of my career. Now, back up against the wall!”

I did as I was told, raising my hands above my shoulders as I backed slowly toward the wall, feeling the weight of the situation crushing down on me.

He moved over to the telephone, keeping his eyes locked on me. With a swift motion, he picked up the receiver with his left hand, brought it to his ear, and barked, “Get me the Alexandria Police headquarters. And make it quick.”

As I stood there, my shoe brushed against an electric plug in the wall. I kept my eyes on him while I slowly lifted my right heel and rested it atop the plug, waiting for the right moment.

“This is Sergeant Montgomery,” he growled into the phone. “Send a patrol car to 230 Mt. Vernon Avenue in Old Town, immediately. Tell the lieutenant I’ve got a suspect here who just shot Quentin Powell and his housekeeper. I caught him in the act…”

I shifted my weight, pressing down on the plug with all my strength. It snapped from the wall with a satisfying rip, and with a swift kick, I sent it flying. There was a flash, and the room was plunged into darkness. Instantly, I dropped to my hands and knees just as Montgomery’s gun went off, shaking the windows. Fortunately for me, the hallway lights had gone out too. The thick, suffocating darkness gave me a brief sense of protection, though it was shattered when Montgomery fired again. This time, the bullet whizzed past my face, missing by mere inches.

I hurled myself sideways toward the couch, knowing it was my only cover. I reached it just before he fired once more. The gun’s muzzle flash revealed his position: he was dangerously close. Desperate, I sprang up and swung where I guessed his head would be. My fist connected with his ear, sending him stumbling. I dropped down again just as he squeezed the trigger. The shot shattered one of the large windows in Mr. Powell’s lounge. *I’m really getting good at this,* I thought, a grim smile tugging at my lips.

Still on my hands and knees, I scrambled away, breathing hard through clenched teeth. I could hear Montgomery staggering toward the door, his footsteps heavy and clumsy in the dark. I moved cautiously, my hands searching for obstacles as I made my way toward the window. In the distance, I could hear the faint wail of a police siren, growing louder and louder as the patrol car raced toward Powell’s house.

My searching hands found the edge of a low table. Without thinking, I grabbed it with both hands and hurled it toward Montgomery’s silhouette. A grunt of pain followed by a string of curses told me I had hit my mark. He fired blindly in response, the bullet whining close to my head. Then, before I knew it, he was on top of me, stumbling forward with a furious growl.

His left hand latched onto my sleeve, but I yanked myself free, sidestepping and throwing a hard punch to his face. My fist connected with his jaw just as his gun went off again. The flash of the gun’s muzzle singed my face, and for a split second, my heart froze. But the good news was that my punch had knocked him backward. I heard the heavy thud of him crashing into an armchair, the sound reverberating through the room.

Not wasting a second, I bolted for the window. I yanked back the drapes, allowing moonlight to spill into the room. The headlights of the fast-approaching police car illuminated the street outside, and the police siren was now blaring in full force. The red spotlight on the roof of the speeding car confirmed my worst fears.

With a swift kick, I smashed my foot through the window, shattering the glass just as the police car skidded to a halt with a screech of tortured tires. Two officers jumped out of the car, guns drawn, leaving the car doors hanging open.

One of the officers leaped over the gate and sprinted up the path. From inside the house, I could hear Montgomery still cursing as he fought to free himself from the armchair. My original plan had been to escape through the window and disappear into the garden, but now that idea was dead in the water. The officer running up the path would see me the moment I dropped into the garden. I had to act fast. Time was no longer on my side.

I stepped back and slipped behind the drapes, pressing myself flat against the wall. I stood there, utterly still, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst from my chest.

Montgomery rushed to the window and leaned out. From my hiding spot, I could smell the stale tobacco clinging to his clothes, confirming how dangerously close he was.

“The punk went this way,” he shouted to the officers outside. “He can’t have gotten far!”

With a grunt, he swung his leg over the windowsill and dropped into the garden. I let out a silent breath of relief.

“I didn’t see him, Sergeant!” one of the officers called out.

I didn’t stick around to hear more. I moved swiftly through the darkened room, heading toward the hallway. Feeling my way up the stairs, I finally reached the landing and paused to listen. Outside, more police sirens filled the night air as additional cars screeched to a halt. I could hear Montgomery shouting, but his words were lost to me.

Using the soft glow from my cigarette lighter, I located a door at the top of the stairs. I crossed the landing, turned the handle, and slipped into Mr. Powell’s bedroom. The curtains were drawn tight, but I didn’t care anymore. With a flick of the switch, I flooded the room with light. 

There was blood on the blue rug. A Smith & Wesson Model 52 pistol lay carelessly on the bed’s white cover. From the mess of blood, it was clear the Mexican housekeeper had been shot there, and the gun lying on the bed had done the killing. I pulled out my handkerchief, draped it over the gun, and lifted it to my nose. The acrid scent of exploded gunpowder confirmed my suspicions. I needed a weapon, so without hesitating, I slipped the pistol into my hip pocket.

Switching off the light, I cautiously pulled aside the curtain and glanced down at the garden. The moonlight washed over the freshly mowed lawn, making it look ghostly white. I could see three policemen, guns drawn, moving cautiously in a line away from the house. My heart sank. That escape route was out of the question.

Suddenly, I heard the front door slam open, followed by the heavy thudding of feet in the hall. On high alert, I tiptoed across the room and gently eased open the door.

“Turn on some lights here,” a gruff voice commanded.

There was a brief pause, and then the room was flooded with light. Standing over the dead housekeeper was a short, thickset white policeman wearing a white fedora. Sergeant Montgomery hovered by the front door, his brutish face slick with sweat.

“Are you sure he went out the window?” the short man asked, not bothering to look at Montgomery.

“Yeah,” Sergeant Montgomery snarled. “I saw him go. He can’t have gotten far. He was quicker than I thought, though, Lieutenant. Kicked out a wall plug and shorted the lights.”

From the exchange, I realized this short man must be Lieutenant Brandon Bishop, the one ex-Police Captain Wilkens had mentioned.

“The captain’s going to love this,” Lieutenant Brandon muttered. “If we don’t catch this guy, you’ll be back pounding the beat.”

Sergeant Montgomery shifted uncomfortably. “We’ll get him,” he said loudly, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Why didn’t you bring backup?” Lieutenant Brandon asked, stepping away from the lifeless body.

“How was I supposed to know he’d pull a stunt like this?” Montgomery snapped. “I was heading home when I got the call that he was going to see Mr. Powell. Figured I’d stop by and check it out. I caught him red-handed, robbing the safe.”

“And then you let him slip away,” Brandon remarked with a dry smile, strolling into the lounge.

Sergeant Montgomery made a gruff sound, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and followed Brandon into the lounge. Meanwhile, two patrolmen, guns at the ready, ascended the stairs and took up posts by the front door.

More sirens wailed in the distance. Two police cars screeched to a stop outside, their doors slamming shut as three men marched into the hall. The patrolmen snapped to attention, saluting the tallest of the trio, who I figured was Police Captain Fitzgerald.

Lieutenant Brandon emerged from the lounge. “We haven’t found the guy yet,” he reported to the tall man. “But we’ve got all the roads covered. He ditched his car. His name is Emeka Okeke. I hope I said that right. He’s an international student from Nigeria, also a writer for the Baltimore Star.”

Captain Fitzgerald, a man with a flat face and a black mustache that starkly contrasted his shock of white hair, pulled out a pack of Marlboros and placed a cigarette between his lips.

“The Baltimore Star?” he echoed, skepticism dripping from his voice. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve read some of his stuff myself,” Brandon replied. “Seems like a sharp guy. Hard to believe he’d do something like this.”

“We need to tread carefully,” Fitzgerald warned, lighting his cigarette. “That paper’s got plenty of clout. Why would a guy like him want to take out Powell?”

“No idea,” Brandon admitted, shrugging. “But Montgomery caught him taking money from the safe.”

“I’m not buying it,” Fitzgerald said, shaking his head.

Sergeant Montgomery stepped out of the lounge. “I saw him, Captain,” he insisted. “I’m pretty sure he’s been looking into that Anthony Graves murder. Maybe Powell caught him snooping around, and Emeka panicked.”

Fitzgerald’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know he’s investigating the Graves murder?”

“Mrs. Tara Graves had a visit from him tonight,” Brandon explained. “And he’s been talking to Captain Wilkens. He even stopped by the Golden Triangle Club.”

“You’d better put all this down in a report,” Fitzgerald ordered. “The Commissioner’s going to want the details.”

“Yes, Captain,” Brandon responded.

Fitzgerald turned sharply on his heel, heading for the front door. Before stepping out, he glanced back.

“You’d better find Emeka,” he said coldly. “Or we’ll all be in hot water.”

With that, he disappeared into the night.

“We’ll search upstairs while we wait for the doctor,” Montgomery announced. “Emeka didn’t have a gun. Maybe he stashed it in one of the rooms.”

Brandon grunted in response and retreated into the lounge.

I seized the opportunity, moving swiftly across the landing and into Mr. Powell’s bedroom. My pulse quickened as I heard the heavy steps of Sergeant Montgomery coming up the stairs.

 

 

END OF EPISODE 29

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 30, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXVIII – Silent Footsteps

 

I entered the cab and told the driver to take me to the Panache Motel. As I sat in a corner of the cab’s back seat, a Marlboro cigarette between my fingers, I pondered about my discovery. I was excited that the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were falling into place at last. They didn’t make sense yet, but I know that soon they would. It’s just a matter of time.

So, for some reason, Saul Bolton and LaToya Young left Alexandra and ended up in Baltimore. While they were there, someone paid Dajon Price to kidnap and murder LaToya. Then, on the day LaToya died, Saul Bolton came back to Alexandra. 

I want to believe Saul is the one who paid Dajon to kill LaToya, but I can’t be sure until I figure out why she was killed. Then, out of nowhere, Mrs. Tara Graves jumps into this mystery. Ex-Police Captain Wilkens told me she’s his top suspect for the murder of her husband, Mr. Anthony Graves. If she really did kill him, even if she got someone else to do it, that makes her vulnerable to blackmail. She had dinner twice in Hollywood with a failed stripper, and that stripper was a known blackmailer. So, in my mind, blackmail seems to be the only reason why Mrs. Graves met with Breonna Adams twice. It also explains why Mrs. Graves hesitated to admit she knew her and why she didn’t want me stirring up more trouble by going to California. 

But where does LaToya Young fit into all of this? Why did seeing LaToya’s picture freak Mrs. Graves out like that? People don’t show that kind of fear for no reason. There’s got to be something big going on. 

I had been trying to link LaToya Young to the Graves family, and now I had the connection. But now that I had it, what was I supposed to do with it? Time wasn’t on my side, and I couldn’t keep digging with the Alexandra police breathing down my neck. 

I was still deep in thought when the cab pulled up outside the Panache Motel. I paid the driver and walked into the lobby. The clock above the reception desk showed it was twenty-two minutes past midnight. I didn’t see the thickset cop who had been lounging in the basket chair when I left earlier. As the clerk handed me my key, he barely looked at me, as if I hadn’t paid for my room for the last two weeks or not.

As I crossed the lobby to the elevator, the house security man materialized from behind the pillar.

“Are they gone yet?” I asked him out of the corner of my mouth.

“Yes,” he replied. “But they wire-tapped your telephone line. Unfortunately, Panache Motel has got a reputation. I guess you’ll want to move out tomorrow.”

“You mean you want my room?”

“Nope,” he replied. “But the manager does.”

“No worries,” I said. “I will move out then.”

I took the elevator up to my room, feeling a bit on edge. When I unlocked the door and flicked on the light, I was relieved to see that the room was empty. No cops hiding in the shadows—thankfully. I closed the door behind me and headed straight for the drinks cabinet. I poured myself a glass of vodka and sank into an armchair, trying to figure out what to do next.

Switching hotels didn’t seem like a smart move. The Alexandra police and the powers running the town were putting pressure on me, trying to quietly force me out. If I pushed back, it could get ugly. I thought about Sergeant Montgomery and his rough ways of handling things, which made me feel even more alone. I really wished Medgar was around to back me up.

As I sat there sipping my drink and going over everything in my head, I finally made up my mind. I’d leave Alexandra tomorrow morning and sneak back when it got dark. Captain Wilkens had told me that Godson Arora could help me if I needed to go underground, and that seemed like the best option. Trying to do anything out in the open would just make me an easy target for the police. If I was going to crack this case, I’d have to work smart and stay in the shadows.

The sudden shriek of the telephone bell made me start so violently I slopped my drink. I picked up the receiver and said, “This is Emeka.”

“I found you at last,” a voice I recognized said. “Latasha gave me your telephone number. If you have a free time, Emeka my good friend, come out here and have a drink with me. I’ve a theory that might interest you.”

I had a mental picture of one of those hard-faced Alexandra cop straining their ears to catch every word, and I said sharply, “Don’t mention your name, okay? And please don’t say anything more. I’ll be on my way to your house pronto.”

“Why the excitement?” Quentin Powell asked, mildly interested. “Is somebody listening on the line?”

“That may be possible,” I said. “I’ll be in your house in a minute,” and I hung up.

As I got into the elevator, I couldn’t help but wonder why he had called me so late. Heading all the way out to Mt. Vernon Avenue wasn’t exactly a short trip. I figured I should take the Chevrolet Impala—it’d be easier to shake off the Alexandra police if I was driving myself.

The parking lot was behind the motel, and the clerk dragged himself out of his office, clearly half-asleep and struggling to stay awake. He pointed me toward the Impala, then shuffled back to continue his nap. I drove out of the parking lot with only my parking lights on, sticking to the river road. My eyes stayed glued to the rearview mirror, checking to see if anyone was following. After about a mile, no headlights showed up behind me, so I turned off the river road and made my way into town.

It was quiet for the most part, but there were still some signs of life. A few cafes, an all-night movie theater, and some nightclubs were still buzzing. The dashboard clock read 1:10 AM. I took my time driving through the back streets, making sure no one was tailing me. Once I was sure, I headed out to Mt. Vernon Avenue.

As I cruised down Mt. Vernon, I noticed that most of the houses were dark. People were home, though—the cars parked outside and the faint sound of party music from radios made that clear. At the end of the street, I made a U-turn and slowly drove back. I passed Quentin Powell’s townhouse, which looked completely dark, but that didn’t mean anything. I’d been to his place twice before and knew that his heavy curtains blocked out any light from inside.

I parked behind a dark blue Lincoln convertible that was sitting outside the neighboring house, got out of the Impala, and walked up to Quentin’s gate. The neighborhood was quiet except for the distant hum of radios further down the street. I knocked on the door, using the lion’s head knocker. The door creaked open slightly. I pushed it, and it swung wide open, but the whole place was pitch black.

I steadied the door and knocked again. Nothing happened. The darkness and silence was strange. I listened hard, suddenly uneasy.

“Mr. Powell? You there?” I asked and moved forward, my fingers groping in my pocket for my cigarette lighter.

The only sound I could hear was the busy ticking of a clock nearby. Getting my lighter out, I snapped it alight. Now I could see a little bit, and with the help of the small yellow flame of my lighter I found a light switch near the door. I turned it on and closed the front door. I then crossed the hall and peered into the dark lounge. As I was about to reach forward to grope for the light switch, I heard a creepy sound that made me to immediately spin around. What I heard sounded like a slow dragging footfalls from above. I could feel the hairs on the nape of my neck stood up and my heart was literally racing.

“Is that you, Mr. Powell?” I said, stepping into the light and looking up.

The only answer I got was the sound of slow, dragging footsteps. They were getting louder now. Then I saw a small figure step out of the darkness and just stand there at the top of the stairs. It was Mr. Powell's Mexican house help. She was gripping the banister with one hand, but what made my heart drop was the blood. It was smeared across her face and staining the left side of her once-white coat.

I stared up at her, feeling my mouth go dry. I wanted to run up the stairs and help her, but just as I moved, her face twisted in pain. Her legs suddenly gave out, her knees buckled, and her hand slipped off the banister.

And then she fell. She hit the middle of the stairs hard with her shoulder and slid the rest of the way down, her body limp, until she landed right at my feet. I didn’t even have to touch her to know she was dead.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 28

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 29, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

 

LaToya: Episode XXVII – Whispers of Suspicion

 

There seemed to me no point in returning to the hotel because the night was still young. It doesn’t make sense for me to go there now and risk having the cops pick up my trail. So I chose the smart move: I will have a few more hours to myself before I went to bed at the hotel.

On my way back to the center of Alexandra, I decided I was now ready to have a talk with Mrs. Tara Graves if she would have a talk with me, which I doubted. Time was running out for me, and I wouldn’t be staying much longer in this rich city. But I still need to cover a lot of ground before I finally leave the city.

I found a telephone booth, dialed Mrs. Tara Graves’ number and waited with great expectation. After a few moments a man’s voice said, “This is Mrs. Tara Graves’s residence.”

I figured he would be the butler.

“This is Mr. Emeka Okeke of Baltimore calling,” I said. “Put me through to Mrs. Tara Graves if you please.”

“Can I keep you on hold for a moment?” the voice said.

“Sure,” I replied.

There was silence, and time stood still. But as I was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten me, Mrs. Tara Graves came on the line.

“Hello? Yes? Who are you?” she said.

“My name is Emeka,” I said. “I am a writer. I would like to interview you about a girl you met in California last year.”

There was a pause. I could be wrong, but I believe I heard her quick breathing.

“Interview? What girl?” The voice was as cool as a bowl of ice cream.

“Can I see you? The interview will only last twenty minutes,” I said.

“Well, I suppose you can if you are sure it’ll be twenty minutes,” she replied. “But I can’t give you more than that.”

“Thanks a lot, Mrs. Graves,” I said. “Twenty minutes will cover it. I’ll be right over.”

And before she could change her mind, I hung up.

Why did Mrs. Tara Graves grant me this interview? I wondered as I left the booth. It was a big surprise to me. I had expected to be turned down flat. Getting her consent for this interview was almost too easy.

A cab slowly inched by, and I flagged it down.

“Arundel Hall, North Ridge-Rosemont,” I said as I slid into the backseat.

After a good twenty minutes, we rolled up to the grand, wrought iron gates guarding Mrs. Graves’ place, Arundel Hall, in North Ridge-Rosemont.

A security guard, dressed in a navy-blue uniform and a black hat, stepped out of the lodge, opened one of the gates, and approached the cab.

“Mrs. Tara Graves is expecting me,” I said with a grin. “The name’s Emeka.”

“Your ID  please,” he said.

Because of the darkness, I couldn’t see much of him. His voice, however, sounded tough and alert.

I gave him my driving license. He turned on a flashlight, examined the driving license, nodded and handed it back to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are welcome,” he replied.

He then opened the other gate and the cab drove through.

“This is my first time here,” the cab driver said over his shoulder. “It’s indeed good to be rich. You know, to have guards, gates and all. Oh my God!”

“Even the Bible said that money is the answer to everything,” I said, peering through the open window into the darkness. But for the headlights of the cab which picked out trees, a lot of shrubs and bushes, and the white, sand covered drive, I couldn’t see anything from the window. There was no clear view of the gardens nor of the house from the approach.

After a three-minute drive, the driver swung the cab on to a big stretch of tarmac at the foot of the steps leading to the house. Another navy-blue uniformed security man appeared from nowhere and opened the cab door.

I told the cab driver to wait for me since I will be done in less than thirty minutes. I then nodded to the security man and went up the steps to the main entrance.

The door was open and as I walked in, a tall, elderly man, who I figured to be the butler, was waiting for me.

The soft light from the hall lit up his Korean features. He was strong, and is probably nudging seventy. Even though he was Korean, I could see that he had been well-groomed to look like a dignified stateman who was about to dine with some politucian, say, the state governor. And he carried with him an atmosphere of baronial halls and lighted candelabra. I was really impressed with the way he carried himself.

“If you will follow me, sir…”

His figure and voice did not sound welcoming.

I followed him and we walked down a wide corridor. From there he opened a glass-paneled door and we walked through it, down some steps and into a vast lounge that ran the length of the house. The lounge have enough sofas and lounging chairs to seat up to sixty people. The floor was covered with an ornate richly colored Arabian carpet, which gave the room the millionaire’s touch.

“If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll inform Mrs. Tara Graves you are here,” the butler said as if reading from the script of a Shakespearean play. And after saying that, he went away silently.

The first thing that caught my attention when he had gone was a large oil painting of Mrs. Tara Graves that hung over the fireplace. She was sitting on the railing, looking at the distant garden, wearing a light yellow summer frock. The painting was very beautiful, with a remarkable resemblance to LaToya, and the detail of the landscape had been worked in with incredible patience and care. There was something about the style of the figure that was familiar to me, and moving closer to the picture I saw in the right hand corner the artist’s name: Quentin Powell.

Stepping back, I examined the painting with closer attention. I had no idea Mr. Powell could paint as well as this. From the sketch of LaToya Young I had seen, I had assumed he was just one of those wannabe  cover designer that were lucky enough to make a living from the job. This painting, however, showed me he was a highly skilled artist.

He had caught the feeling I had had when I had first seen Mrs. Tara Graves. In this portrait by Mr. Powell, Mrs. Tara Graves looked as cold and as remote as she had done when I had seen her. Yet in this portrait I could see and feel a flame burning behind the impersonal mask that I had sensed when I had first seen her. To me, the picture was both alive and compelling.

Then I saw her standing close to me. I nearly jumped out of my skin, for she gave me quite a start. She was within touching distance of me before I even knew she had entered the lounge. How she able to come down the steps and crossed the vast expanse of carpet to where I was standing without me noticing her still baffles me.

“Mr. Emeka? I hope I pronounced your name correctly?”

She was wearing a topless light green evening dress, and around her throat blazed a magnificent collar of diamonds. She was indeed beautiful. Her big black eyes, that glittered like her diamonds, looked right into mine, making me feel a little nervous.

“Yes, Mrs. Tara Graves,” I said, and as she didn’t appear to recognize me, I decided not to mention the Golden Triangle Club.

“From the way your name sounds, and from the way you speak, I am assuming you are from Africa, correct?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m from Nigeria.”

“Interesting,” she said. “It’s good to speak to a real African. It reminds me of my roots.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Graves,” I said. “It’s kind of you to see me.”

The Korean butler came in with a tray of drinks which he set on a table.

“Well, let sit down first,” she said, waving to a lounging chair and sat down nearby.

The Korean butler asked me what I would drink. I asked for a Vodka and Pepsi, and while he fixed it, we sat in silence. He gave her a glass of Whisky and then went away.

“So, how may I help you?” she asked as soon as he had shut the door behind him.

“I am a crime writer, Mrs. Graves,” I said. “I am interested in the movements of Breonna Adams. I understand you met her in California last year?”

She looked down at her Whisky glass, her face expressionless, then she looked up at me and her eyes told me nothing.

“I meet so many people, Mr. Emeka,” she said. “I don’t remember anyone called Breonna Adams. Are you sure you are not making a mistake?”

“You were in Hollywood, California in August last year though, Mrs. Graves?” I asked.

“Yes, I was,” she replied.

“Breonna Adams was a stripper and a showgirl, working in Hollywood, California at the time,” I said. “I learned that she had dinner with you at your hotel more than once.”

She frowned.

“That may be possible, Mr. Emeka,” she said, shrugging impatiently. “But I just don’t remember. In any case, how do you know this?”

It was hard to know if she really didn’t remember or if she were lying.  I am inclined to believe that behind her expressionless mask there was tension, but I just can’t prove it.

“Ms. Adams told her friends she had dinner with you,” I said. “Anyway, it is not that important, and I won’t bother you with it. I was hoping you will remember. Of course as a rich lady you must meet a lot of people, so you are correct. Don’t worry yourself about it. I will just check at the Hollywood Hotel.”

A little of the Whisky suddenly jumped out of her glass and made a spot on her skirt. Even though I didn’t see her start, the Whisky was a give away.

She looked up.

“Surely, you wouldn’t go all the way to California just to find out if Ms. Adams dined with me or not?” she said, staring.

“I’m afraid I have to,” I said. “The newspaper I work for requires us to check every fact before we print it. I was hoping you would remember Ms. Adams and save me the time of going to California, but as you can’t, I have no choice than to go there.”

“Very interesting,” she said. “Why is this so important?”

“I’m trying to fill in Ms. Adams’ background,” I explained. “It seems she had a talent for making friends with rich people like you,  Mrs. Graves. I have no proof of this. However, her friends tell me she claimed to know you and dined with you. That’s a very interesting story, because for an ordinary stripper to have you as a friend shows that she must have a lot of talent. It is possible that she may have been lying. If I go to California, I might dig up other wealthy people who met her.”

“I would like to help you, Mr. Emeka,” she said, passing her slim fingers across her forehead. “Allow me to think now. I do vaguely remember meeting a girl in California. Yes, I think I do remember meeting her.”

“You did meet Breonna Adams then?”

“It is possible that I did,” she said. “I don’t recall the name of the girl I met when I was there, so I’m not sure if she is Breonna Adams. But I’m not good with people’s names though.” She drank a little Whisky before saying, “Yes, I’m sure I met one Ms. Adams. I can’t remember just how. I was on my own in California. I was waiting for Anthony, my husband. I would say the girl was fun to be with, and I do vaguely recollect asking her to dine with me.”

She did a good job of it, but not well enough to fool me.  She had remembered Breonna Adams as soon as I had mentioned her. I was so sure I can bet on that. Why had my bluff about going to California suddenly smoked her out?

“What was your hotel, Mrs. Graves?”

She looked up and for a brief flash there was an angry expression in her eyes.

“I stayed at the  Hollywood Hotel.”

“You don’t remember how Breonna Adams made friends with you?”

“That’s correct,” she said. “We probably met in a shop. I believe that was it. Now I do remember. We met in some arts shop around the corner.”

“Please go on,” I said.

I could almost hear her thinking.

“Yes – it was an art shop,” she continued. “The store keeper speaks only Spanish. Ms. Adams was in trouble with her because she didn’t speak Spanish. I came to the rescue. That was what happened.”

I was sure now she was lying.

“So you became friends?”

“Not really,” she replied. “But I must  liked her enough to invite her to dinner. I scarcely remember the girl, Mr. Emeka. I meet a lot of people. Is that all you need to know, because if it is, I’ll…” She got to her feet and stood looking at me.

I got up.

“I guess that is all, Mrs. Graves,” I said. “It was just a matter of checking. Thanks a lot for giving me your time.”

“Why are you interested in Ms. Adams anyway?” She asked. “You did say you were a crime writer. Is she in trouble?”

“Not at this time,” I replied. “She’s dead. Someone killed her on August 20 of last year. That was a few days after she returned from California. The police thinks she was blackmailing somebody.”

I was watching her closely when I said that, but she didn’t bat an eyelid.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “Next time I will be more careful when making friends with strangers.”

“Sure, that will be a good policy,” I said, and as she moved towards the wall bell, I went on, “That was a very beautiful portrait of you. I had no idea Quentin Powell could do work like that.”

For some reason that I could not explain, this chance remark registered. She turned quickly and her eyes were suddenly as hard as the diamonds in her throat.

“Do you know Mr. Powell?” she asked, and I saw her small hands turn into fists.

“I spoke to him awhile ago,” I said. “I can’t say I know him. You have to understand that in my job, I talk to a lot of people.”

“I agree with you. Well, good night, Mr. Emeka. Jeong will show you out,” and again she moved to the bell.

Then a sudden idea came to my mind and as she rang the bell I acted on the idea without thinking.

“I almost forgot,” I said and took out my wallet. “I have a picture of Breonna Adams right here. Maybe you could identify her for me.”

I took out LaToya Young’s photograph from the wallet and handed it to her. She took it and moved to the light, turning her back on me.

Although I couldn’t see her face, her reaction was a score for me. If I had put a baby snake into her hand she wouldn’t have reacted more violently. She dropped the photograph on the floor  and I saw a shudder pass through her. She stood motionless for a brief moment. Then with a tremendous effort of will, she bent quickly and picked up the photograph. Turning around, she handed the photograph to me. Her face was as white as a bowl of milk shake. She now looked older and less pretty, and the look in her eyes was frightening.

“Is this meant to be a joke?” She said.

“No, Mrs. Graves,” I replied. “I just wanted to know if you…”

“I don’t recognize that face,” she snapped. “She looks just like any other stripper to me. Good night, Mr. Emeka.”

She turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

I stood there for a long moment, waiting for the Korean butler to show me the way out. I could feel a surge of triumph run through me. I’ve made a big kill at last! I was sure of it. She knew LaToya Young. Before I could begin to process what my new finding was all about, the Korean butler came in and escorted me to the waiting cab.

 

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 27

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 28, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

 

LaToya: Episode XXVI - Politicians Fix Everything

 

As soon as I entered Captain Wilkens house and sat down on one of his chairs, I said to him, “I was being followed by Sergeant Montgomery’s boys, but I managed to shook them off before coming here.”

“You angered him too fast, didn’t you,” Captain Wilkens asked as he fixed two brandies. “How come?”

I told him what happened at the Golden Triangle club. He stood, holding his glass and looking at me with a concerned face.

“What do you know about Mrs. Tara Graves, Captain?” I asked when I had finished my tale.

“She got me retired from the Alexandra Police force,” Captain Wilkens, sitting down. “At least, it was through her, and I’m very sure she was the one that demanded for it.”

“Very interesting,” I said. “This has something to do with her husband’s murder, I believe?”

“I can see you’ve been very busy gathering information since our last meeting,” he replied. “Who told you about the murder?”

“Latasha,” I replied. “She was my date at the Golden Triangle club. Can you tell me more about this murder?”

He stretched out his massive legs, to get himself comfortable and then said, “I don’t think it has anything to do with your case though. But I will tell you anyway. Do you prefer the outline or the details?”

“I want the details,” I said. “You may be right: his murder may not have anything to do with my case. However, some of the characters appear in both cases, and I am convinced there may be some connection somewhere. So, tell me all you knew about the case.”

Screwing up his face and starring up at the ceiling, Captain Wilkens narrated the story of Mr. Anthony Graves’ murder.

“Mr. Anthony Graves was shot to death on August 6 of last year. He went riding over his estate early in the morning, as he often do. His horse came back to the house after a while without him. His staff searched for him and found his dead body on the top of a hill in the open country. Someone had killed him with a shot gun.” He paused to look at me. “It was mayhem. Anthony Graves was wealthy and well known. The press and the Alexandra  politicians raised hell. The African American politicians in particular made so much noise about him being killed by the white supremacist just because he was a rich black man who had such a big estate a state like Virginia. I knew I had to do something very remarkable real fast or I will lose my job.” He took a drag off his cigarette. “Well, as it turned out, I lost my job.”

I was looking at him silently and attentively, and after a pause he went on, “Anthony Graves’s wife was in California at the time of the murder. Anthony Graves had business in California, and a month before he died, he had made arrangements to go over there with her. But his plans changed at the last moment because he had to attend two board meetings in Washington D.C. and this delayed his departure. However, his wife went on ahead of him. Anthony Graves’s secretary called her immediately and she flew back.”

“Who’s the secretary?” I asked.

“His name is Timothy Wright,” he replied. “He quit after the funeral and he’s working with the Old Town Construction Company now. If you are planning to talk to him, I would say you will be wasting your precious time. He’s tighter than a clam.”

“Did you come across any clues during your investigations?” I asked.

“It was a very strange case,” he explained. “The use of a shot gun for the murder got me confused. Why would an assassin use a shot gun with only a killing range of thirty yards? See what I mean? To me, the fact that a shot gun was used at a close range means that the killer was known to Anthony Graves. He was murdered out in the open: he wasn’t ambushed. This fact again is a proof that he must have known the killer or he wouldn’t have got within range. Anyway, this was my theory about the case at the time.”

“Latasha said it was a hunter,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “They all said it was a hunter, but I don’t really believe that.”

“You thought it was his wife?” I said, looking at him.

He shrugged.

“I am a policeman, right?” he said. “So I work on motives. And Mrs. Tara Graves had a hell of a motive. She was twenty-two years younger than Mr. Graves after all. There’s no way they could have had anything in common. Before she married Mr. Graves, she was just a model and lived in a two-room apartment. I think she married him for his money. Period. You have seen her, haven’t you? She wasn’t the type of woman to be bossed around, and Mr. Graves could be like that. Maybe she got frustrated and impatient. Women of her  type  would want to handle the money themselves, as she is handling it now. She’s pretty smart for the way she handled this job.”

“But she was in California when he was shot!”

“Yeah,” he said. “She had a good alibi, no doubt. I’m not saying that she shot him. My theory was that she could have planned it with someone’s help.”

“Was there another man in her life?”

“She is a good friend of Saul Bolton,” he said. “I am not sure if they are romantically involved with each other though. But a guy with Saul Bolton’s background must kill sooner or later. He was a good fit for the job too. And, what did she do when she got control of the estate? She sold the club to Saul Bolton. He had always wanted it, but Mr. Anthony Graves wouldn’t part or else his price was too high. That was a nice motive. She might have bribed Saul Bolton with the club to get rid of Mr. Graves.”

“Did Saul Bolton have an alibi too?”

Captain Wilkens laughed mirthlessly.

“Saul Bolton’s alibi was cast iron,” he said. “He was in Washington D.C. playing poker with three of the most respectable men in town: one of them was a district court judge. They all swore he was with them all the time. Just like my theory about Mrs. Tara Graves, I don’t say he did it himself. What I am saying is that Hwang Yun, his hitman, or any of his thugs could have done it on his command.”

“You didn’t get anywhere with that theory?”

“No,” he replied. “As soon as I began to snoop around, Commissioner Lawson pulled me off the case and tossed me off the Alexandra Police force. Commissioner Lawson also happens to be a great friend of Mrs. Tara Graves. He thinks she is a sweet and lovely lady.”

“What made the Alexandra newspapers go for the hunter theory?”

“Mrs. Tara Graves had that all tied up,” he began. “Her story was that a few weeks before the murder,  Mr. Anthony Graves caught a hunter into the wood in his estate. She named the hunter: a guy who lived a few miles from the estate, very close to Farm Road. His name was Reuben Hightower. We knew him. He is a black man and an army veteran of the Vietnam war. But his mind have been messed up by his war experience. He also was a tough guy and he lived on his own. He was one of those strange war veterans who only worked when they had to, and he had been in trouble off and on for stealing and fighting. He was the ideal guy for Mrs. Tara Graves to pick on. She claimed her husband horsewhipped him, and she was positive Reuben Hightower had come back to even the score. The Alexandra newspapers liked the idea, and they liked it still more when we couldn’t find Reuben. Commissioner Lawson liked the idea too, but it sounded fake to me. Anthony Graves couldn’t have horsewhipped or handled Reuben alone. Anyway, we hunted for Reuben. We found traces of his flight. He was seen around the time of the killing riding his bike away from the back entrance to Anthony Graves’ estate – at least, a man on his Harley-Davidson XLCH Sportster, wearing a crash helmet and googles was seen, and the witness swore it was Reuben Hightower. A crash helmet and googles make a good disguise. The problem is that no one bothered to consider that angle except me. We finally found Reuben’s Harley-Davidson XLCH Sportster. It was in a shed near the harbor, but we never found Reuben.”

“Did this guy on the Harley-Davidson motorcycle have a gun with him?”

Captain Wilkens shook his head.

“We found the gun later in the wood, and we traced it. We found that the gun had been stolen a couple of months ago from Humphrey Saddleman, the local banker. Mr. Saddleman and four friends had gone out shooting. They left their guns and bag in the cars when they had lunch at a restaurant. The gun was missing when they returned to the cars.” He looked over at me, and then said, “Saul Bolton was one of the party, and he left the restaurant during lunch to make a phone call. My theory then was that he could have gone to Mr. Saddleman’s car, took the gun and hid it in the trunk of his own car. You do the math.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I started to check Mrs. Tara Graves’ alibi,” he said. “I asked her for her airline ticket, which I also verified with the airline. There’s no doubt she went to Hollywood, California, on the day she said she did. The airline ticket proved it. But then, that was as far as I got. She must have called Commissioner Lawson and told him I had been asking questions. Before I knew it, I was retired and through. Meanwhile, they never found Reuben Hightower and they’ve never cracked the case.”

“So you think Mrs. Tara Graves persuaded Saul Bolton to have her husband iced?” I asked. “Is that your theory?”

“That’s right,” he replied. “And I still believe that was what happened.”

“But you haven’t got any proof?”

“No,” he said. “But the motive was there. Saul Bolton could have stolen the gun, but that’s all except a hunch, and my hunches are often right.”

“Any idea what could have happened to Reuben Hightower?”

“I believe he was at the bottom of the Potomac River now in a cement overcoat, but that’s only my guess,” he said. “And I’m sure you are thinking the same thing this very moment, right?”

“I will need more facts to be able to answer that,” I said. “But thanks, for briefing me on this case. You may be right: Saul Bolton may have killed Mr. Graves to please Mrs. Tara Graves. I wish I could see how this murder hooks up with my case. If I could only hook LaToya Young with Mr. Anthony Graves. Suppose, while Mrs. Tara Graves was in Hollywood, California, Mr. Graves got LaToya over for the night? It’s been done before and many rich men still do it. LaToya might have seen the killing, got scared and bolted. This might also explain why she took another name. The killer – your pal Saul Bolton – traced her to West Baltimore and iced her too. I don’t say it happened like that, but that is the kind of connection I’m looking for.”

“Forget it,” Captain Wilkens said. “You’ll be wasting your time if you follow that angle. Mr. Graves wasn’t that kind of man. So, get that idea out of your mind, for it will only confuse you.”

I shrugged.

“You may be right,” I said. “Well, I will be on my way now. I still have a lot to do.  But I will be in touch.”

I got to my feet.

Captain Wilkens stood up too, and went with me to the front door. Before opening the door, he turned off the light and said, “Be careful, son. If you ever need a good hideout, go to Godson Arora. He runs a bar on King Street and he’ll keep you under cover if you mention my name. This investigation you are doing is very risky and you may need to duck out of sight in a hurry. That will be when you will need Godson Arora.”

“I hope it won’t come to that; but thanks anyway,” I said, and stepped into the dark, warm night.

 

 

END OF EPISODE 26

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 27, which  will be published here next Sunday.