LaToya: Episode XXXIV – Midnight Confrontation

  

 

With a couple of hours to spare, I decided to head back to Godson's bar. Even though he was about to go to bed, he came downstairs when I called him. He glanced at my scraped knuckles but didn’t ask any questions.

“I need a car,” I said. “Do you know anyone who can rent me one at this hour?”

“You can take mine,” he offered, reaching for his keys. “The garage is at the end of the alley. It's an old '60 Pontiac, but I’ve kept it in good shape. It still runs fine.”

"Great, thanks," I said, slipping the keys into my pocket. "One more thing: where’s Duke Road?"

“You know Captain Wilkens' house?” he asked, yawning. “It’s the second turn past there. If that’s all, I’m heading to bed. Some of us have to work for a living, you know.”

I assured him I had no further questions.

Once he left, I turned on the radio and caught the end of a Little Richard song. By around twelve forty-five, I grabbed Godson’s car and made my way to Duke Road. As I passed Captain Wilkens’ house, the place was completely dark. I thought about stopping by to fill him in on the situation, but it didn’t seem like the right time. Judging by the stillness, he was likely asleep.

I parked the Pontiac at the corner of Duke Road and walked to Ashley’s apartment building. Her place was on the ground floor, tucked in the back. I rang the doorbell, wondering if she’d made it home. A few moments later, I heard movement inside. She was home. But to my shock, when the door opened, there stood Hwang Yun, gripping a .357 Magnum in his right hand, eyes cold and menacing.

“Don’t move,” he growled. “Walk inside. Try anything funny, and you’ll regret it.”

He stepped aside, giving me enough room to enter. The place was bigger than I’d expected—plush chairs, pretty curtains, a table with roses, and a Panasonic radio quietly playing in the corner. Ashley sat on the couch, not looking at me. Three red marks stood out on her cheek, clear evidence of a slap, probably from Hwang.

“Back against the wall,” Hwang barked.

He didn’t seem to recognize me, but I was rattled all the same. I did as he said, backing up against the wall, trying to seem more scared than I was.

“You’ve got this all wrong,” I started, trying to sound frantic.

“Shut up!” he snapped, stepping back to keep both of us in view.

“Just listen!” Ashley shouted suddenly. “This guy forced his way into my dressing room tonight! I’ve never seen him before. Austin kicked him out. He must’ve followed me here.”

“You gave him your address,” Hwang muttered. “Austin overheard it.”

“Austin’s a liar, and you know it!” Ashley retorted, her voice rising. “He’s always trying to get me in trouble! I didn’t give him my address!”

Hwang glanced at me with suspicion.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” I said, trying to look guilty and embarrassed. “Not right now, anyway. How could I have known she wasn’t alone? I thought maybe we could have some fun.”

“Fun?” Hwang sneered. “So you’re just here to hit on her, huh?”

“I’m just looking for a good time,” I replied, sulking. “What’s so wrong with that?”

He looked back and forth between me and Ashley, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.

“You make me sick, Hwang,” Ashley said, standing up suddenly. “Throw this loser out and leave while you’re at it. I want to go to bed.”

She walked over to the table, poured herself a glass of brandy, and took a sip.

“Shut up!” Hwang yelled. “I don’t trust either of you. I’m going to find out who this guy really is.”

Ashley just shrugged, stepping closer to him. I had a feeling I knew what she was planning, so I edged toward the door.

“Stop right there!” Hwang shouted, raising the gun toward me.

Quick as lightning, Ashley threw her glass of brandy in his face, grabbed his wrist, and yanked the gun down. She wedged her finger into the trigger guard, stopping him from pulling the trigger.

I didn’t hesitate. I crossed the room in a flash and punched him in the jaw. His head snapped back, and before he could recover, I hit him again, sending him to the floor.

Ashley stood up straight, breathing hard, her eyes locked on Hwang. I took the gun from her trembling fingers. She shuddered and stumbled to an armchair, sinking into it.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “I shouldn’t have.”

“This guy won’t stay quiet for long,” I said. “You’ve got to talk to me. I can take you somewhere safe. Do you want to come?”

“I don’t have a choice,” she replied quietly. “Not after this.”

“Go pack your things,” I suggested. “I’ll deal with him.”

She nodded and walked slowly into the next room.

As they say, you don’t have to tell a fish that water is wet—it already knows its fate. With that thought on my mind, I opened Hwang's coat, yanked it down over his elbows, and used his belt to tie his wrists together. He mumbled something as I rolled him onto his back. I gave him a sharp tap on the top of his head with the Magnum, and his eyes fluttered shut as he went limp again. I grabbed a curtain cord and tied his ankles, then gagged him with his own handkerchief.

Satisfied that he wouldn’t be causing any trouble for a while, I went into the other room to check on Ashley. She was rushing around, packing her things into two suitcases, clearly panicking.

“Take it easy,” I said, trying to calm her down. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“You don’t understand,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I was an idiot to listen to you.”

“Relax,” I said, stepping closer. “I’ll take care of you. Let me help.”

“No! I can do it myself.” She snapped the first suitcase shut and frantically moved on to the second one. “I have to get out of town. He’s been waiting for something like this to happen.”

“Who’s been waiting? Saul Bolton?”

“Yes,” she answered, closing the second suitcase. “Where are you taking me?”

“I’ve got a car parked outside,” I said. “If you think you’ll be safer away from Alexandra, I’ll drive you. Do you have a place you can go?”

“I’ve got friends in Baltimore,” she replied. “I should’ve gone to them earlier. Can you take me there tonight?”

“Of course,” I agreed, thinking we could talk more during the drive. I moved toward the door. “While you change, I’ll keep an eye on Hwang. Don’t take too long.”

I stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

Hwang was still out cold. I sat down where I could keep an eye on him and waited.

After about twenty minutes, Ashley emerged from her room. She was dressed in a dark gray suit, with a fur coat draped over her arm. Her face looked tense, her eyes shifting uneasily toward Hwang before settling back on me.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

I walked into her room and grabbed her two suitcases. As I headed back to the living room, Hwang made a muffled noise, squirming slightly.

“He’ll be fine,” I reassured her. “Come on, let’s go.”

I moved to the door, set down the suitcases for a moment, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. At the far end, I noticed a shadow across the glass panel of the front door—a short, stocky man with broad shoulders.

I immediately stepped back into the living room, signaling Ashley to stay still. Her eyes widened in panic, but she didn’t make a sound. I cautiously peeked into the hallway again. The front door was slowly creaking open. I quickly shut the door to Ashley’s apartment.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, her voice filled with dread.

“There’s someone outside…”

I quietly turned the key in the lock and listened. Soft footsteps echoed down the hallway, getting closer. They stopped just outside the door. My pulse quickened as I watched the doorknob slowly begin to turn.

Ashley backed up, her face pale, her hand covering her mouth. In the stillness of the room, the sound of knuckles knocking against the door echoed loudly, sharp and startling, like a sudden clap of thunder on a quiet night.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 34

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 35, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXXIII – Secrets in Shadows

 

I slipped out of the hideout around nine-thirty, using the emergency exit. It was one of those pitch-black nights without even a sliver of moonlight, and a faint mist of rain was in the air. Oddly enough, the darkness made me feel safer, almost like it wrapped me in a cloak of invisibility. As I walked, I was glad to stretch my legs after hours of being holed up. The report I’d written for Mr. Sessoms was as complete as I could make it, taking me about four hours to finish. But it was worth it—putting it all on paper cleared up a lot of the jumble in my mind.

I had this nagging idea: if I could figure out why Quentin Powell was killed, maybe, just maybe, most of my other problems would fall into place. As I strolled, my thoughts drifted to what happened yesterday. I couldn’t shake the memory of Mrs. Graves’ reaction when I brought up the painting Powell had done of her. There was something in her eyes, a flash of something she wasn’t saying. And then there was her expression when I showed her the photo of LaToya Young, one of Powell’s models. It was almost like a puzzle starting to take shape in my mind. There had to be some connection between Mrs. Graves, Powell, and LaToya. I figured LaToya’s friend, Jessica Laidlow, might know something, something that could help me. I made a mental note to talk to Jessica as soon as I got the chance.

Then there was Saul Bolton—a loose end I needed to tie up. If his ex-girlfriend, Ashley Robles, was willing to talk, she might help me tonight. The Black and Proud Nightclub was where I was headed. Its flashy neon entrance led down to a dimly lit basement club. It was cramped and a bit claustrophobic, but that didn’t stop it from being a hot spot for tourists looking for cheap thrills.

I descended the stairs, and a bouncer with a face like a bulldog let me in after I forked over five dollars for a temporary membership. After that, I might as well have been invisible—he didn’t give me a second glance. Inside, I pushed past a heavy curtain into the bar area, which reeked of smoke and sweat. The tables were crammed together like they were on a lifeboat, and only about twenty people filled the place. Most were girls dressed for attention—too much makeup, not enough clothes, all hoping to catch the eye of a wandering guy.

As I made my way to the bar, I felt their eyes on me, sizing me up. The bartender, a guy with a face that reminded me of a rabbit, nodded when I approached. He gave me a funny look, probably trying to figure me out.

“I’ll take a whisky with cranberry juice,” I said, sliding onto a stool.

He poured the drink and glanced over at the girls. “If you want company, sir,” he said with a smirk, “just smile at one of those girls. She’ll come right over.”

“Which one is Ashley Robles?” I asked, grabbing the glass. “Or isn’t she here tonight?”

The bartender licked his lips, looking as tired as I felt. “You want Miss Robles?”

“Yeah,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “She’s the one I’m looking for.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious. “Are you her friend?”

I leaned on the bar and gave him a casual smile. “If it helps, I’m a friend of a friend of hers. Is she here or not?”

“No, sir,” he said, his tone shifting slightly. “But take my advice—if you know what’s good for you, leave it alone. She’s got friends who don’t appreciate guys asking about her.”

I chuckled and shook my head, downing the rest of my drink. “Look, I’ve got plenty of friends who are girls. I’m not here to stir up trouble. I just have a message for her—that’s all. No need to buzz around someone else’s honey pot.”

The bartender seemed to relax a bit and refilled my glass. “A lot of guys come in here asking about her,” he muttered. “If it’s just a message…”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning in, “it’s just a message from her uncle. Where can I find her?”

He took my money, pocketed the two-dollar tip, and nodded. “She’ll be doing her act in about half an hour. Stick around, and you can talk to her afterward.”

I peeled a few bills from my wallet and flashed them at him. “Listen, if I spend half an hour here, I might suffocate in this atmosphere. How about I visit her in her dressing room?”

He tugged at his ear, eyeing the cash I held. After a moment, he sighed. “Fine. It’s the second door by the band. But keep it quiet, alright? Don’t make a scene.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, standing up and sliding the bills into his hand. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse at a cat convention.”

He pocketed the four five-dollar bills as effortlessly as a Bissell vacuum cleaner collecting dust. Meanwhile, I carried my drink over to a table near the band, took a seat, and lit a cigarette. Just then, a generously endowed black woman, dressed entirely in black, sauntered over without an invitation.

"Hi, sweetheart," she greeted me, flashing a smile that might’ve been dazzling if it weren’t for her teeth. "Gonna buy me a drink?"

I glanced at her and replied, “I’m waiting for my mother.”

Her face twisted into a sneer that was almost comical. Without another word, she stormed back to her friends, clearly relaying what I had said. Right then, two men in flashy tropical suits and hand-painted ties walked in, instantly drawing the women’s attention away from me.

Once I finished my drink, I stood up, strolled over to the second door by the band, and slipped through. The corridor was dimly lit, and at the far end, I spotted two doors. One had some kind of logo on it. I knocked and waited.

A sultry contralto voice called out, “Come in.”

I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The black woman sitting in front of triple mirrors was striking in her own way, especially if you had a thing for medium-built women. She had the curves you'd expect from a black woman in showbiz. A few years ago, she might have been breathtaking, but the grind of the nightclub scene had taken its toll on her youth. She wore a low-cut scarlet and black gown, with a Newport cigarette dangling from her glossy lips.

She raised an arched brow and asked, “Well? Can I help you?”

“Miss Ashley Robles?” I asked, standing just inside the room.

“That’s me,” she replied.

“My name’s Weaver,” I said, borrowing Medgar’s name. I moved farther into the room and closed the door behind me. “Got a moment?”

“For what?” She twisted in her chair, draping a smooth arm over the backrest, her expression disinterested.

“You and I might have some common ground, Miss Robles,” I began. “I’m investigating Saul Bolton.”

Her eyes narrowed as she tapped the ash from her cigarette. “Why?”

"It’s a long story, but the short version is this: Saul Bolton’s involved in the disappearance of a girl, and I’m looking for any information you might have. I can make it worth your while.”

“What girl?” she asked, now fully interested.

“LaToya Young or Leisha York,” I said. “Ever heard of her?”

Her lips tightened, and she gave me a once-over.

"Who are you—a detective or something?" she asked, still suspicious.

“I’m a private investigator,” I admitted.

“Who hired you?”

“I’m working for someone with deep pockets and a lot of interest in finding this girl.”

She stubbed out her cigarette, turning to check herself in the triple mirrors.

“We can’t talk here,” she said in a low voice, picking up a comb and running it through her hair. “I have an apartment on Duke Road, Apartment 11C. Meet me there after one o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

Just then, we heard a door creak open further down the corridor. Her face tensed. A moment later, there was a knock on her door, and her eyes filled with fear.

In a high-pitched voice, she started, “You’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t know anyone named Kenneth—”

The door swung open, and in stepped a tough-looking bouncer. He glanced at me, then grunted, “What the hell are you doing here?”

"What do you care?" I shot back, stepping back just enough to size him up.

“Get him out of here, Austin,” Ashley said, her voice shaky. “He’s bothering me.”

The bouncer reached for my jacket, and I had to fight the urge to clock him. His chin was wide open, practically begging for a punch, but I kept calm, playing it cool.

“I was just leaving,” I said, keeping my tone even. “No need for a scene.”

“Oh, you’re about to get more than a scene,” the bouncer growled, his grip tightening as he shoved me down the hallway toward the rear exit. He yanked the door open and threw me out into the cold night air.

“If I ever see you in this club again, I’ll rip you apart and feed you to my dog,” he snarled, giving me a shove that sent me stumbling onto the sidewalk.

I straightened my jacket, gave him a smirk, and couldn't resist. "You and who else?"

The words got to him. He swung his fist like a lazy pendulum—slow, heavy, predictable. I sidestepped it with ease, then delivered a solid right to the side of his jaw. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the pavement with a grunt, like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground.

As the saying goes, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 33

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 34, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXXII – A Risky Favor

 

 

It was just past 11 o'clock when I climbed down from the bunk bed in Godson's secret hiding place. I stretched, yawned, and headed to the bathroom to splash some water on my face.

Godson's hideout was really impressive, and I couldn’t help but wonder about its history. It was built under his bar with solid concrete and steel, with a hidden entrance that was tough to spot, plus an emergency exit leading to the alley behind the bar. Inside, there was a refrigerator stocked with food, a radio, a TV, a phone, a table, three comfy chairs, and plenty of liquor.

While I was shaving, I listened to the police signals coming through on the shortwave radio, but nothing seemed to be about me. Just as I finished rinsing my razor, Godson walked in with a few paper parcels. He set them on the table and pulled out four small packages and a folded newspaper from his pockets.

"I hope I didn’t forget anything," he said as he plugged in the electric kettle.

I unfolded the newspaper and immediately saw the big story about the double murder. In his statement, Lieutenant Brandon said the police had important clues and were looking for a tall, Black, young man with an African background who wore a peaked hat. They thought he might have information to help solve the murders. I was surprised they didn’t mention my name and how vague the description was.

"Is that you?" Godson asked while dropping two eggs into a saucepan.

"Yeah, that’s me," I answered as I checked out the stuff he’d brought for me.

He handed me a twist of black hair, a small bottle of spirit gum, hair dye, and a few other things. I didn’t need the hair dye, though—I’m African, and my hair’s already dark. While I continued reading the newspaper and looking through the items, he started cooking soft-boiled eggs and making coffee and toast for breakfast.

Once he was done, I figured I’d eat first before trying out the fake mustache he’d given me, made from the black hair and special glue. He leaned against the wall, holding a cigarette, watching me eat.

"Do you know Captain Wilkens well?" I asked, cracking open an egg.

"Twelve years," Godson said, staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette. "He was my boss during Vietnam. He saved my life twice, helped me avoid a court martial, and even got me three weeks off when my wife was dying—General Westmoreland himself had said no leave for anyone, but Wilkens made it happen. I owe him everything."

"This place is something else," I remarked.

He grinned at me.

"Don’t get the wrong idea, pal," he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "This spot was here when I bought it. It was one of Al Capone’s old liquor joints. Sometimes people need a place to cool off, and it comes in handy. When Captain Wilkens was running things, I kept it closed. But now, with the new crowd in charge of the Alexandria police force, I help out when I can. It'll run you thirty bucks a day. I’m saving up for a trip to the Caribbean, otherwise I wouldn’t charge you."

I grinned back. "That’s fine," I said. "I’ll keep track of the expenses for my boss."

He sighed, clearly envious.

"I’ve always wanted to do that," he admitted. "But don’t worry. As long as you’re here, you’re safe."

I cracked open another egg. "Why don’t you sit down and relax?" I suggested.

He grabbed a beer bottle, popped it open with his teeth, and sat down, taking a sip.

"I can’t stay long," he said. "Got some work to do."

"How do I reach you if I need you?" I asked.

"Just call me on the phone," he replied. "I’m the only one who answers."

"Do you have someone who can run errands for me? I need to send a package to Baltimore."

"I’ve got a boy," he said, "but he might talk. Why not mail it?"

"It needs to get there today," I insisted.

"Take my advice, mail it for safety," he suggested.

"No problem," I agreed. "But could you get me a good amount of writing paper?"

"There’s some in the drawer of the table," he said.

"Perfect," I acknowledged. "That settles it for now."

He took a long swig from his beer, sighed contentedly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up.

"You’ve got plenty of food here," he said. "Help yourself. I’ll be back later."

I pulled out my wallet, counted my cash, and handed him three fifty-dollar bills. I’d already paid him for the things he bought for me. As he grabbed the tray and left, I opened the packages and slipped into the brown sports suit he got. It fit perfectly, not too flashy, just the right kind of blend-in-with-the-crowd look.

I spent the next thirty minutes carefully crafting a mustache. Every single hair was placed with care, and it turned out pretty convincing. With the new suit and mustache, I was sure not even Medgar would recognize me. Heck, I barely recognized myself.

I wrapped the .36 revolver carefully, doing my best to hide its shape. Then I sat by the phone and dialed Baltimore City Police Headquarters. When the call went through, I asked for Police Captain Donald.

"Emeka here," I said as he picked up.

"I knew it was you from the sound of your voice," he replied, and we both chuckled.

"Anyway, I've got a report and a gun for you," I explained. "I need you to pick them up today. Can you send someone to get them?"

"I can do that," Captain Donald said. "What's the deal with Mr. Powell? Who killed him?"

"Your people here think it was me. That’s what the papers are saying, and they’re out looking for me. Until I can get this sorted, I’m laying low and staying out of your sight, too. You’ll find everything in the report. The gun was used in the shooting, and I need you to run prints and check ownership. I’ll leave it with Godson Arora at his bar on King’s Street. Send someone fast."

"How’d they pin this on you?" Donald asked, his voice sharp.

"I got there a few minutes after it happened," I answered. "Sergeant Montgomery caught me snooping, so I got out of there fast."

"Listen, Emeka, if they’re gunning for you..."

"I know, I know. I’m not asking for help. I can handle it. Just get the gun checked for me. That’s all I need. I’ll reach out again soon. Goodbye for now." I hung up.

An hour later, I finished writing a full report on what was going on. As I sealed the envelope, Godson walked in and just stared at me.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed, walking around me. "I wouldn’t have known it was you! Relax, my friend. No cop in Alexandria would recognize you."

"I guess the disguise worked, huh?" I said, touching my mustache. "I should be able to move around unnoticed. I’ve arranged for someone from the Baltimore City Police to pick up this package and letter from you. That okay with you?"

"Sure," he said, taking the package and the letter. "Feels like a gun in here."

"That’s because it is," I replied, leaning back in my chair. Then I asked, "How long have you been living in Alexandria?"

"I’ve been here since the Vietnam War," he said.

"So, you must know a lot of important people around here," I said.

"Yeah, I know some of them," he nodded.

"What about the ones who aren't so good?" I asked.

"I know quite a few of them, too," he admitted.

"Have you ever seen this girl?" I showed him a picture of LaToya Young. He looked at it and shook his head.

"I don’t think so," he said. "All these girls kind of look the same to me, but I don’t remember her."

I slipped the photo back into my wallet.

"Do you know anything about Mrs. Tara Graves?" I asked.

His face hardened.

"She’s the one who got Captain Wilkens kicked off the Alexandria Police Force," he said. "Yeah, I know her. Why are you asking?"

"I don’t know, but I have a feeling she’s tied to all my problems," I said.

"She’s tight with Commissioner Lawson’s crew," he said. "If she doesn’t like you, you’ve got trouble. Even Sergeant Montgomery works for her."

"Really? How do you know that?"

"A bartender hears a lot of things," he said. "Montgomery’s just a sergeant, but he’s got a lot of pull. Money talks in Alexandria, and he's got plenty. You should see the Mercedes he drives and his fancy house."

"Do you think all that comes from her?" I asked.

"That’s what they say," he answered. "I’d bet he’ll make Lieutenant next year, then Captain after that."

"Why do you think so?"

He gave me a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"She doesn’t give things for free," he said. "He's definitely earned whatever he's got."

"Captain Wilkens thinks she murdered her husband," I shared. "What do you think?"

"I don't really know," he replied. "But what I do know is that just two days after her husband was shot, Sergeant Montgomery bought that fancy car."

"They say Reuben Hightower was the one who shot him. Did you ever meet Reuben?" I asked.

"Wait a minute, are you looking into this murder?" he asked, sinking into one of the armchairs in the room.

"It might be connected to another case I'm working on," I said. "So, have you ever crossed paths with Reuben?"

"Reuben and I were in the same battalion during the Vietnam war," he shared. "He was more like my professional colleague. But he didn't kill Mr. Anthony Graves."

"What happened to him?"

Godson shrugged his shoulders.

"He was taken care of. When you want to kill someone as rich and powerful as Mr. Anthony Graves, it’s smart to have someone else to blame. Reuben was that guy."

"How does Saul Bolton fit into all of this?"

Godson looked confused.

"Does he? I didn’t know that," he said.

"Captain Wilkens thinks Saul Bolton set up the killing because Mrs. Graves told him to," I explained. "He got something in return, like the club."

"That’s an idea, but I don’t really know," he replied. "The fancy Golden Triangle club is not my area. Why not talk to Saul’s ex-girlfriend? She seems ready to hurt him if she’s sure there won’t be any consequences. Around the time Mr. Anthony Graves was killed, Saul and she had a big fight. He kicked her out."

"Who is she, and where can I find her?" I asked.

"Her name is Ashley Robles," he told me. "She works at the Black and Proud Nightclub on Potomac Boulevard." He stood up and said, "If I have more time and you want to talk, I'd like to know more about this situation. Reuben was my friend."

"Sure," I agreed.

He took the letter and the package. Once he left, I picked up the phone and called Medgar personally. After waiting for a while, he answered.

"How’s everything going, buddy?" he asked. "Long time no talk."

"I’m managing without you," I replied. "It’s time you did some work too."

"I thought I heard the wind," he joked. "The story is going well. Even Mr. Sessoms likes it. Give me a couple more weeks..."

"A couple of weeks won’t do," I interrupted. "You’re going on a long trip. You’re going to California."

"California?" He sounded really excited. "Wow, that’s great! Do you think Mr. Sessoms will agree?"

"He will after he reads the report I’m sending him," I assured him. "I want you to find out what Mrs. Tara Graves did when she was there. I'll give you all the information. Take a picture of LaToya Young and show it to people in the hotels I’ll tell you about."

"Did she really go to California?"

"I don’t know, but I want to find out," I said. "Also, check on Breonna Adams."

"Sounds like a lot of work," Medgar complained. "There are fun things to do in California too, you know."

"Come on, Medgar," I encouraged. "You’re the one in charge, remember? Besides, this is really important. I’m in trouble here. The police think I did something bad, and they’re looking for me. They’re tough, and they mean business. If you don’t help me, I’ll go to California myself, and you can handle things here."

"Okay, calm down," Medgar said quickly. "I’ll give you what you want. Just tell me, and you’ll have it."

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 32

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 33, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXXI – Hunted and Hidden

 

I started running the moment I stepped out of the house. The long, empty street stretched into the night, like it never wanted to end. I tried my best to avoid the yellow pools of light that the street lamps cast on the ground. I wasn’t sure if the two patrolmen had connected the dots yet. But if they had, it wouldn’t take long for them to head back to headquarters and report what went down.

I had a good two miles to go before reaching the center of town. Before the police cars caught up to me, I knew my only shot was to find a hiding spot, and fast. Captain Wilkens had once told me, "If you need a place to lie low, head to Godson Arora’s on King’s Street." It sounded like solid advice at the time, but now I realized I had no clue where King’s Street even was. Was I running toward it, or getting farther away?

I turned a corner and started down a street that led straight into the heart of town. I kept to the shadows, still careful not to be seen. The all-night neon signs created a faint glow over the town, making everything look even farther away. I glanced at my watch. It was getting close to 3 a.m. Daybreak wasn’t far off.

Suddenly, a car made a left turn at the far end of the street, its bright lights cutting through the darkness. When I saw the beams, I was passing a house. Instinct kicked in. I placed one hand on the low yard wall, vaulted over it, and dropped down to my knees. The car roared up the street, its headlights sweeping across the wall, forcing me to crouch even lower. I heard the car’s tires screech as it slammed on the brakes and made a hard turn onto Mt. Vernon Avenue.

Once it was out of sight, I got back on my feet, jumped back onto the street, and started running again. By the time I reached the bottom of the street, right on the edge of the shopping center, I was gasping for air. I knew this area was risky—this was a cop’s beat. By now, every officer here would know what I looked like.

I moved through the dark backstreets, passing small, rundown shops, grimy restaurants, and shabby apartment buildings. This was the hidden part of the city, like a dirty secret, where the workers of the wealthy city of Alexandra lived.

A shadow flickered in front of me, and I froze. I quickly ducked into a shop doorway. A large patrolman strolled up to the curb, balancing himself on the edge, swinging his nightstick while gazing up at the grey-black sky. He took a seat, probably exhausted, and sat there for about five minutes while I silently watched. When he finally got up, he continued down the street, away from where I was hiding.

At the next crossroads, I made a right turn. Across the street, a dim yellow light spilled through a glass-paneled door, creating a rectangle on the dirty sidewalk. Above it, a neon sign flickered, reading, “Delicious Meals. Open 24/7.” I crossed the street, scanning the area to make sure no one was around, and then stepped into the square of light, peering through the door’s glass panel.

Inside, a fat white man with greasy black hair, a rough stubble on his chin, and hairy arms resting on the counter was staring blankly at a newspaper spread out before him. The room was dimly lit, and there were no other customers. I pushed the door open and stepped in. The fat man looked up, but his eyes, heavy with boredom, barely registered me.

"Sir, can I use your phone?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He lazily lifted a dirty thumb and pointed to the far side of the room.

"Go ahead," he said with a yawn, revealing his big, white teeth. "Knock yourself out."

I stepped into the phone booth, shut the door behind me, and scanned the phone book. I found Godson Arora’s number and dialed. As the phone rang, I glanced through the glass panel at a large man sitting outside, his bulky form barely fitting in his chair.

“Hello?” A tired-sounding voice answered.

“Is Godson Arora there?”

“You’re talking to him,” the voice replied. “What do you want?”

“Captain Wilkens told me to call you,” I explained. “The Alexandra police are after me, and I need to disappear fast.”

The man on the other end sighed, long and heavy.

“Well, if Captain Wilkens said so, who am I to argue?” he said. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m at an eating joint on Mortimer Street,” I answered.

“Do you know where my place is?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve been walking around, dodging cops.”

The man groaned, clearly annoyed.

“So, I’ve got to come pick you up, huh?” he said.

“That would be great,” I said.

“Yeah, great for you, not so much for me,” he muttered and then went silent.

“You still there?” I asked after a few seconds.

“Yeah, yeah. The things I do for Captain Wilkens. Just stay where you are. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes, maybe less.”

“Thanks a lot!”

The line went dead, and I slowly hung up the receiver.

As I turned to open the booth door, I noticed a shadow flicker across the narrow rectangle of light spilling onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, two large men shoved the door open and stepped inside the small eating house. They made their way straight toward the fat man. He straightened himself slowly, his large, hairy hands resting calmly on the counter in front of him. His face showed no emotion.

Through the glass, I caught a few of the whispered words from one of the men: “Police. We’re looking for someone. Anybody been in?”

I shrank deeper into the tight space of the booth, feeling a wave of sweat cool on my face.

“I haven’t seen anyone in the last two hours,” the fat man replied.

“Are you sure?” the officer asked, his voice low and menacing.

“I just told you, didn’t I?” the fat man shot back, his tone curt. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, placed it between his lips, and fumbled for a lighter.

The officer stepped forward, smacking the cigarette from his mouth while grabbing the fat man’s cheek with thick fingers.

“Don’t smoke while I’m talking to you, punk,” the officer growled.

The fat man stiffened, his dark eyes glinting with restrained anger, but he didn’t say another word. He didn’t move.

The officer continued, “We’re looking for a man of African ancestry, tall for his age, probably around thirty, and wearing a peaky hat. If you see him, report it to the Alexandra police headquarters. Got it?”

“Yeah,” the fat man responded.

“You’d better.”

With that, the two officers turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. They disappeared down the street.

The fat man left the counter, walked over to the door, glanced outside, then shut it with a quiet click. He didn’t even look at me.

I took out my handkerchief and wiped the sweat from my face. Then I opened the door of the booth and stepped out. The fat man looked at me, his eyes cold.

“They might come back,” he said. “I saw a cop hanging around the corner. You should go in there.” He pointed to a door near the phone booth with his thumb.

“Thanks,” I said and quickly opened the door, stepping into a small, worn-out living room.

A large white cat lounged in an armchair. It lifted its head, gave me a sleepy glance, and then went back to napping. I took out my cigarette pack, lit one, and inhaled deeply. My knees felt weak like I had been running all day, and my breath was heavy.

A few minutes later, the fat man came in with a steaming cup of coffee and set it on the table in front of me. He pulled open a drawer, took out a small bottle of whisky, and pushed it toward me.

“Do you have any friends?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Someone’s on their way to pick me up. Thanks for everything.”

“No problem,” he said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t help the Alexandra police, even if they paid me. You’ll be safe here. Just wait for your ride and don’t do anything stupid.” With that, he left the room.

I poured a shot of whisky into the coffee and took a sip. The warmth spread through my chest, and I finally felt myself relax a little. I sat down, feeling the exhaustion sink into my bones.

This was the first time I had a moment of peace since I discovered Mr. Powell dead. But my mind was still racing, more focused on my own situation than on why he was killed. His last words kept echoing in my head: "I have a theory that might interest you." I knew he was aware of my search for information about LaToya Young, so it seemed like his theory had something to do with her. Could he have been killed because of that theory? If the killer wasn’t there when he called me, how did they know Mr. Powell was going to talk? It started to feel like the killer was someone Mr. Powell knew.

I pulled out the .36 revolver and gave it a good look. It seemed either brand new or really well maintained. The serial number was 3987651. I checked the clip and noticed only two shots had been fired. Either the killer was a great shot, or it happened up close and personal.

I was sure Captain Donald could dig up some information on the gun. I planned to send it to him as soon as I could. Wrapping it carefully in my handkerchief, I tucked it back into my jacket pocket.

What was my next move? I was convinced that the answers to LaToya Young's kidnapping and murder were here in Alexandra. But the longer I stayed, the greater the risk of getting arrested. I was the prime suspect in Mr. Powell's murder, and if I didn’t find the real killer soon, there wouldn’t be a safe corner of this country left for me.

This thought made me sweat. Staying in Alexandra seemed inevitable. I realized that if I wanted to move around freely, I’d need to come up with a disguise. Maybe if I lightened my hair, threw on some sunglasses, and changed my clothes, I could go unnoticed. With all the African visitors and immigrants in Alexandra, I might be able to blend in.

I was still running through my options when a large man stuck his head into the room.

"Godson’s waiting for you outside, alright?" he said.

I stood up. "Sure," I replied. "Can he come in?"

The big guy nodded and disappeared. A moment later, Godson Arora walked in. He was small, with thin bones, gray hair, a pointy face, and emotionless eyes. He wore a black leather jacket zipped up to his chin and a pair of dirty gray pants. He walked over and shook my hand.

"Nice to meet you, sir," he said, his voice calm. "Tell me, how much trouble are you in? How much heat is on you?"

I didn’t sugarcoat it. "I was found in a house where two people were killed—the owner and his Mexican helper. The police think I did it."

Godson frowned. "That’s bad," he said. "So, what do you want me to do? Help you escape from Alexandra?"

"No," I answered. "I need a safe place to investigate. If I want to clear my name, I need to find the real killer."

"You’re fooling yourself," he said flatly. "You should get out of Alexandra while you still can."

"Not just yet," I insisted. "Captain Wilkens said you could help me. Can you?"

"He did?" Godson’s eyes lit up, and he broke into a grin. "Well, in that case, I think I can. I do quite a few favors for that man! Anyway, I’ll hide you for a few days. But I can’t offer more than that—any longer, and it’d be too risky. I don’t want any run-ins with the Alexandra police. They’re ruthless! Now, listen closely. My car is parked at the end of the street. I’ll go and get it, then drive by here slowly. Jones—the big guy who runs this place—will give you a signal when it’s time to move. I’ll have the car door open. Jump in quickly, alright?"

I nodded. "Alright," I told him.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 31

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 32, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXX – Curtains of Deception

  

With my back pressed against the wall and the window drapes concealing me, I waited anxiously. I heard Sergeant Montgomery's heavy footsteps pounding across the landing as he entered the next room. He spent a few minutes in there, but to me, it felt like an eternity. Then, I heard him exit and move into another room.

My nerves were on edge because I kept imagining what would happen if they caught me. From my hiding spot, I could see into the garden. The three patrolmen were still wandering around aimlessly, so escaping through the garden wasn’t an option. Sergeant Montgomery seemed to believe I wasn't in the house, which was my last hope. I prayed hard that he wouldn't look too carefully.

I heard the door jerk open, followed by the sound of him grunting as he switched on the light. He left the door open as he walked out again.

"Hey, Lieutenant!" he called out, "Can you come up here?"

I peeked out from behind the curtain. He was leaning over the railing of the stairway, with his back to me. But just as I was watching him, he turned around, so I quickly let the curtain fall back into place. A few seconds later, I heard Lieutenant Brandon enter the room.

"This is where the Mexican housekeeper was shot," Sergeant Montgomery said, pointing to the bloodstains on the rug. "And look, the murderer placed his gun down on the bed, as you can see."

"Better get Vakiner up here for prints," Lieutenant Brandon responded. "I'm heading back to headquarters. I need to make sure this Emeka guy doesn't slip away from us. You stay put until I give you the all-clear."

The door remained open as the two men left the room. I waited until I heard them go downstairs, then swiftly moved across the room, opened a door on the landing, and slipped into a front spare bedroom. I closed the door behind me, stumbled over to the open window, and looked out into the street.

Outside, I saw three police cars and an ambulance. On the opposite sidewalk, a large crowd of men and women had gathered, some of them dressed for the evening. Four or five patrolmen stood with their backs to the crowd, keeping a watchful eye on the house.

I knew I couldn't climb down the stack pipe into the garden with all those people watching, so I quietly returned to the door, opened it just a crack, and waited.

Sergeant Montgomery and another plain-clothes officer came up the stairs and entered Mr. Powell’s bedroom.

Sergeant Montgomery turned to Vakiner and said, "Find as many prints as you can. No one seems to have been in the other rooms. I need to talk to the news people. Let's get this done, Vakiner."

The other man grunted in acknowledgment as Sergeant Montgomery headed back downstairs.

I waited in the darkness for more than half an hour before Sergeant Montgomery returned and went back into Mr. Powell’s bedroom.

“I’m through now,” the fingerprint man reported. “I’ve only found Mr. Powell’s and his Mexican housekeeper’s prints.”

“Well, okay,” Sergeant Montgomery responded, his voice tinged with worry. “Lieutenant Brandon wants us back. They still haven’t found Emeka. He can’t have gotten out of town. The lieutenant wants a written report tonight. Nothing ever goes my way! I’m leaving a couple of men here. We’ll go over the place again in daylight.”

They went downstairs together.

I quietly got up from the step and looked down the hall. The Mexican housekeeper's body had already been taken away. Sergeant Montgomery and three other men, not in uniform, were gathered by the front door.

Sergeant Montgomery addressed the beefy patrolman who had just come in from the street. “Okay, Popoola. I’ll be back around nine. You stay put and keep an eye out. Don’t let anyone in after we leave. Simond is patrolling outside. I told him to keep the press away, but some of those punks are smart enough to try sneaking in when he’s out back. No one should come in until I return. Got it?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

 Sergeant Montgomery growled, "If anyone gets in, you'll regret it." The other three officers followed him down the steps.

Popoola shut and locked the front door, standing watch. When the sound of the police cars faded, he pushed his cap to the back of his head, pulled out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, and walked into the lounge. A few seconds later, the soft dance music from a late-night radio station floated up the stairs.

I went back to Mr. Powell's room, struggling to reach the window. Once there, I looked out into the yard. A patrolman was walking slowly up and down the flagged path that led from the terrace to the lawn. I moved to the room at the front of the house and glanced out onto the street. It was empty—everyone had left and gone home. I didn’t see any cars, not even the Chevy Impala. It felt like it was time for me to leave.

I headed to the top of the stairs, trying to hear what was happening downstairs. Popoola was still in the lounge. The front door seemed a long way down. I began descending the stairs, my left hand gripping the handrail. Halfway down, I heard the patrolman clear his throat, and my heart skipped a beat, but I kept going.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs. Before I could reach the front door, I had to walk past the open doorway of the lounge. I edged closer until I could just see into the room. Popoola was smoking, his back to me, keeping time with the soft swing music by tapping his right hand. The Smith & Wesson Model 52 gun was in the pocket of my jacket, and I had my hand on the trigger. If I took just two more steps, I'd be too far away to react quickly.

Then, out of nowhere, Popoola suddenly turned around.

We stared at each other across the hall and the living room. His fleshy, weather-tanned face turned a deep shade of red, and his small eyes widened until they were as round as big tomatoes. For a split second, I thought that if I threatened him with the gun, I’d be in serious trouble. I still had a small chance of proving I didn’t kill Mr. Powell, but I couldn’t talk my way out of threatening a cop with a gun.

Slowly, I pulled my hand out of my pocket and forced a smile at him. I saw his hand fumble frantically for his gun holster. He moved slowly, his actions disjointed and panicked.

“Hello, officer,” I said as casually as I could manage. “Where’s everybody?”

 He finally got his gun out and pointed it straight at me.

“Don’t move!” he shouted.

“Take it easy, officer,” I said quickly. “I was hoping to find Lieutenant Brandon. Isn’t he here anymore?”

“Who the hell are you?” he snarled, advancing slowly, his thick finger tight on the gun trigger.

“My name’s Emeka. I’m a reporter for the Baltimore Star,” I said, praying he didn’t realize I was the guy they were looking for. “You’ve heard of me, haven’t you?”

I saw him relax just a little, but his gun was still aimed at me.

“Show me your press card,” he demanded.

I took out my wallet, flipped it open, and handed it to him. He examined the press card before handing back the wallet.

“How did you get in here?” he asked.

“Simonds let me in the back way,” I said. “I wanted to take a look around. Can I do that?”

“Simonds let you in?” The barrel of his gun sagged a bit, no longer pointing directly at me. “That’s against orders. Simonds, of all people, should’ve known better. You can’t be in here.”

“Why not?” I asked. “Nobody will know unless you tell them. Is this where Mr. Powell was shot?” I wandered further into the room. “Mr. Powell certainly lived in style, didn’t he?”

Popoola shoved his gun back into its holster.

“You need to leave, sir,” he said firmly. “Come on! Leave! I’ve got my orders.”

“Take it easy now, officer,” I said, backing away. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Yeah,” he replied, moving past me into the hall. “And I’m doing mine too. Now come on, let’s get you out of here.”

I followed him into the hall and watched as he unlocked the front door.

“Get lost!” he said, holding the door open.

“Okay, I’m leaving,” I said and stepped cautiously past him.

I started walking toward the driveway, doing my best not to run. I half-expected the other officer to show up, but he didn’t.

I stopped at the gate and looked back. Popoola was standing in the doorway's light, staring at me. We locked eyes for a moment before he stepped back and slammed the front door shut.

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 30

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 31, which  will be published here next Sunday.