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.